“Mammy! Stop it!” Fionnuala heard Dymphna's tears down the line, “Ye're ruining me night! Ailish, hand me that rag, would ye? Aye, and another cider and all. I still don't believe ye, but! I'm hanging up on ye, Mammy!”
“Ye can see the evidence for yerself when come home tonight. Ye are coming back for yer tea the night, aye?”
But the line was dead. And Fionnuala knew Dymphna would be coming back to the house. It was the night before the wedding, after all, and Rory couldn't see her. Though, the amount of drink the lad was probably pouring down his throat on his stag do, he probably wouldn't be able to see her if he were looking straight at her anyway. Fionnuala went back to the kitchen, picked up the card where she had thrown it on the floor, searched around for a pen, then turned the card over. And, in a hand remarkably similar to Ursula's—once the Barnetts had won the lottery, Fionnuala had practiced Ursula's signature hoping to get a hold of her sister-in-law's check book one day and go mad—it was like riding a bicycle, she never forgot, Rot In Hell, All Of You she wrote, then tore up the card into tiny shreds. She placed them in the middle of the table. So she could show Dymphna and Paddy and anybody else who might care to look. Her mother had never seen the back of the card, so, though Maureen might wonder why the ink on the back was blue instead of black like the ink on the front, she'd never be able to say it hadn't been sent without the PS.
Fionnuala went back to the cooker. She grabbed the tongs, tugged out the fish and placed them on a piece of paper towel to drain. Then the tongs reached for Lorcan's piece. It hung over the bubbling oil. She dropped it in. The oil spattered. And then the phone rang again. She went to answer it.
Balloons bobbed in the haze of fat- and fag-smog that was the air of the chip van. The grease was splattering, the heat stifling, the space non-existent, the infants were shrieking, and Avicci blared from the transistor radio atop the toaster.
They could only see Maire's arse, as she was bent out the hatch flirting with a construction worker who had asked for a pickled onion, but Ailish and Maeve, eyes glazed, clutching bottles of drink, were shaking their heads at Dymphna.
“Don't do it.”
“It's the drink talking.”
“I'm not giving ye back yer phone.” Maeve had shoved it down her cleavage.
“Ye'll thank us in the morning.”
“I kyanny let it lie!” Dymphna roared. “I need to phone the narky cow and tell her what I think of her! Making up them cruel stories about me auntie Ursula! And making me think about me death, and the deaths of me brothers and sisters and all, and this on the eve of me wedding! Bloody typical of her! Kyanny stick anybody having a good time! Miserable aul geebag! Gimme back me phone now!”
“Ye're gonny regret it when ye wake up in the morning.”
“Ye're gonny regret it the moment ye ring off.”
“Gimme me phone now!”
Dymphna trampled over the chips and buns and pickled onions strewn on the floor—they had been using them as playthings earlier—and reached Maeve's breasts, which didn't take many steps.
Maeve squealed with shock then laughter as Dymphna delved into her sopping valley and grabbed the phone. She pressed her mother's number. Maeve and Ailish shrugged, clinked their bottles together, and drank some more.
“Hello? Mammy?” Dymphna was raging. And slurring.
“What do ye—”
“Right! Home truths! I know ye don't wanny hear it, and I know I should probably keep me trap shut. But I just kyanny. Ye see you, Mammy? I've never been able to stick ye. And that call ye just made to me shows just why. Yer constant badgering, this relentless abuse ye shoot off about me auntie Ursula has to stop now! The poor woman won that lottery money years ago, sure! It be's ancient history, but ye keep harping on and on about it as if it just happened the afternoon before! Ye've long since chased her off to America, and doesn't that be enough for ye? Ye won. But, naw, that doesn't be enough, does it? How empty is yer life that ye feel the need to keep going on and on about what a tight-fisted cunt she is? Lorcan told me all about that puppet show ye put on the other day. Vile! Disgusting! Thank Christ I missed out on it, as it woulda turned me stomach, and I wouldna been able to keep me bake shut about it, and God alone only knows what devious retribution ye'd have served up for me. But I'm telling ye know. And, aye, I know it's the drink and, aye, I know there's less of a chance ye're gonny put me in intensive care as ye don't wanny lose face and not have yer daughter show up at the church tomorrow morning. But, Mammy, I've some home truths to tell ye. Ye might be a marvel at the sewing machine, but ye're the tight-fisted cunt! I love ye dearly, ye know I do, but ye've severe mental problems if ye think ye're some pleasant, kind person anybody with a brain cell in their head would wanny spend time together with. Ye treats us, and me daddy and all, like yer slaves, like yer slaves what ye kyanny stand the sight of. Except maybe wer Lorcan. Ye know what ye are? Ye're a sad aul, useless piece of shite what's gonny die a lonely aul death on yer deathbed, as more people will be lined up down the pub, desperate to celebrate yer passing and ringing bells of joy and I don't know what instead of sobbing at yer side as the life seeps outta ye. Go on ahead, clatter me about the head all ye want the next time ye see me. I've made a new life for meself, and thank bloody Christ for that! If it weren't for Rory dragging me away from the family, and the poor soul had to drag me away, I'da never seen the light of day, so I wouldn't. I know ye've been seeing them doctors at Altnagelvin, I know ye've got some sorta illness, and I feel for ye, I really do, but the only sign of a medical problem I can detect be's ye're flimmin sick in the head! Ye're mental, so ye are, and...Mammy? Mammy?”
Dymphna hadn't heard a peep from her mother as she had started her rant into the little slot of her phone. The line had gone dead. She turned off her phone. When had her mother hung up? How much had she heard? Fear crept into her as her bridesmaids surrounded her (the construction worker had friended Maire on Facebook and left) and covered her with tuts and pats and wee kisses here and there. They poured more cider down her throat. And as Dymphna drank down, she realized they had been right. She was regretting it. And she was still drunk! It would be worse in the morning, her wedding day. She would face it with a hangover. And with dread.
“Happy” played again. Dymphna guzzled down.
CHAPTER 35
The sweater Dymphna had knitted with her little twelve year old fingers was tucked away in a safe corner of Ursula's suitcase, right beside her slippers, and that suitcase was now deep within the belly of the Boeing 757-200 that was taking Ursula and Jed to Northern Ireland. The sweater was misshapen and ghastly, yellow, one arm shorter than the other, and with a green felt elephant with a peanut in its trunk sewed on the front, and its rump and tail on the back. When Dymphna had given it to her that Christmas long ago, Ursula had been mortified wearing it at the dinner table, piling her turkey and mashed potatoes high in the hopes of hiding it behind the food. But she would wear it with pride to the funeral. Let Dymphna's spirit see her in it as she stood at the grave.
Ursula's eyes were sick of tears. She had bawled in the car to the airport, wailed against the window on the flight from Madison to Newark, cried in the loo in the departure lounge, and sniffled into the aisle en route from Newark to Belfast, until now, finally, half-way across the Atlantic two hundred miles or so south of Iceland, she could cry no more. It was such a tragedy, the death of one so young. And Dymphna was one of the best of Paddy's brood, the understanding looks she had, after the lottery win, flashed Ursula when her mother's back was turned, the hidden touches of affection on her arm, the eyes that said “I'm in prison, she be's the prison guard, and I kyanny be caught consorting with the enemy, but I love ye, Auntie Ursula.” Or so Ursula hoped. It was difficult at times to read eyes.
Ursula had picked listlessly at what was supposed to be a slice of chicken and whatever the side dish was meant to be, didn't unwrap the round thing that was the dessert, and didn't even wait for the meal to be cleared or to put her tray up before sh
e slipped on her eye mask and forced herself into a slight, unsatisfying sleep. She kept thinking she was being woken up, feeling Jed standing over her, tugging things out of the overhead bin, and, later, feeling him hunched over his tray at her side, hearing him clacking away on his laptop like a maniac for what seemed like hours, heard the scrunching and squelching noises as he moved in his seat. And then the plane was descending and she pulled off her eye mask and struggled to focus and find the two parts of her seat belt and where her shoes were under the seat before her and Jed asked her how she was feeling. How was she feeling?
Home. The land of a thousand welcomes. And not a single one in sight, nor the hope of one to come. Not for her and Jed.
They touched down at Belfast International Airport and caught the bus to Derry. It took an hour and a half, cost £20 and had free wi-fi that wasn't working and an overflowing toilet that was unsuitable for use. Ursula had wanted to watch the countryside she loved unfurl before her eyes as they rode, the forty shades of green, the flocks of sheep and herds of cows, the occasional crumbling thatched cottage, the roadside branches of the Top Yer Trolly, but the windows were so thick with mud and grime she couldn't tell if it were night or day (it was late morning). A relentless throbbing bass punctuated with the startling squeals of a black woman, Ursula supposed it was the music of the day, pounded out of the speakers and made speaking to Jed at her side quite impossible. So she let him sleep. She stared ahead at the video screen, but the driver had chosen one of the Fast and Furious movies, and with each car crash that unfolded on the screen, she held Jed's arm tighter and tried to avert her eyes. But there was nothing else to look at, except the soiled jeans of the passed out drunk in the seat across the aisle.
They were traveling on a budget, they had dined at the airport on a budget, and now they were approaching Golden Rooms, Derry's least exclusive hotel. Thank God for the $150,000 in their future.
The glass of the front windows was cracked, and they were accosted for spare change by a man with three teeth who was standing guard. They rolled their suitcases inside with trepidation. But even in this godforsaken dump there was still, thanks to the young man behind the counter, the smile (with a full set of teeth!) and the sparkling eyes, the charm of the lilt of the voice, and in the tattered poster of Riverdance on the wall behind the desk the promise of Celtic delight. Next to Riverdance was a poster of Giant's Causeway, and one for something called the Amelia Earhart's Exploreworld Interactive Centre, apparently Derry's Hottest New Tourist Attraction!
Ursula supposed this was a welcome home of sorts, though from a stranger, and one predicated on the promise of money soon changing hands. Ursula was all too used to welcomes like that, and the money always seemed to go in the same direction, out of her handbag.
“Welcome to Golden Rooms!”
“Hi,” Jed said.
“Och, hello, love,” Ursula said, not knowing whether to exaggerate her accent or hide it. She was mortified, mortified, at having to spend a night in a hotel in her hometown. She and Jed had had to stay at a hotel the last time they visited, and how her family had hooted with laughter. A few years ago, she would have been laughing along with them at the thought of a Flood having to pay to spend a night in Derry. Hotels and the need for them was something the Floods had been brought up not comprehending. What sad old gits, what Betty and Billy No Mates, would have nobody, nobody, whose hospitality couldn't be taken advantage of? How things had changed. Now Ursula understood. But if she let the nice young man behind the desk know with her voice she was from Derry, perhaps they'd get a better rate...?
“Have youse a reservation?” he asked, “or will youse be renting by the hour...?”
Ursula's face fell. She pulled her sweater tighter around her. She tried to hide her accent. Unsuccessfully.
“If ye check yer reservations, ye'll see we've booked for three nights. Barnett. Jed.” The three nights they would sleep, though how they would fill the days Ursula hadn't a clue. The wake was probably that evening, but they didn't know where it might be. Maybe at Paddy's house, maybe at a pub, or even over on the Waterside. With the Protestant fiancé, that Riddell boy Ursula had heard about, Dymphna's life had probably changed so much she didn't know where the wake might be. She didn't know anything about her family's lives now, about any of them. But perhaps this funeral was a chance to make amends, hopefully patch up some bridges and find out what had been going on.
“I'm wile sorry I have to ask, but we need payment upfront. Youse look wile respectable, so youse do. But I'm sure youse can appreciate that with some of wer clientele, it's the sensible thing to do.”
He waved to the lobby as if that would make them understand what the clientele usually was. At the sight of the lobby—Ursula feared she detected a condom under the magazine rack—they did.
“Yeah, that's fine.” But Jed's voice sounded strange.
“Och, aye surely, we understand.”
What Ursula couldn't understand was Jed's problem at the moment. Ever since they had gotten off the plane, in fact. Perhaps it had been the music on the bus, or the thought of being forced to see her estranged family again. He seemed on edge, gritting his teeth and clutching the edge of the counter as if he expected the Earth would soon be knocked off its axis. He was staring at the credit card she clutched as if she were passing the receptionist a handful of human teeth. He had a look on his face, a look of horror tinged with hope. It was an odd look, but then as the receptionist took her card Ursula realized it was one she had seen. Many times before, in fact. As he hovered over the roulette wheel at Slots-O-Fun in Las Vegas that one night, and at the dollar slots at Boulder Casino two years later, at the Ascot horse races they had attended one year (Ursula in a hat, Jed in a tuxedo), at the craps table at the casino on the Indian reservation, and late at night sometimes when Jed was hunched over the computer on one of the illegal poker sites. It was the simultaneous fear and excitement of a high stakes gamble.
“What's up with ye, Jed?”
“I think...I think...” Then he shut his mouth, but that strange hope was simmering through the horror in his eyes.
“I'm sorry,” broke in the receptionist. “Have ye another card on ye there?”
“What are ye on about? Ye mean...?”
“Aye, it's been declined.” He said it in a manner as if it happened all too often at the hotel, like the stealing of the towels and the raiding of the mini-bar, and recently, the covert raiding of the mini-bar, where customers carefully unscrewed the tops of the vodka bottles, emptied them down their gullets, filled them with water, and placed them back on the shelves, then closed out their credit cards before they could be charged, but Ursula snorted with laughter. It might happen to their usual sleazy customers, but she and Jed weren't in their sphere. She had the confidence of the upper middle-classes, of a former lottery winner, of a successful applicant on Attack of the Killer Investors! Of course they had disposable income. Perhaps not much, but some.
“I think maybe ye slid it in that wee machine the wrong way. Go on a give it another try. Maybe harder, this time. There's no way it's not gonny work.”
The receptionist did as instructed; he had nothing else to do, after all. He shook his head with an air of sadness as he handed it back. Ursula, perplexed, scrabbled in her purse and handed him her debit card. She had at least two thousand dollars in her account, one thousand her bingo win of the other day.
“Try this one, would ye, love?”
She clacked her fingernails on the counter as unease filled her. Jed was making a show of inspecting brochures for pottery classes. He wouldn't meet her eye, no matter how she tried to configure her head so that their eyes should meet. She beamed at the receptionist as he looked up. Her face fell.
“I'm wile sorry, ma'am, but it says ye've insufficient funds.”
“What?!”
His hand was out for another card, but Ursula had none to give him.
“I...we...we'll be right back,” she stammered, face scorched with
embarrassment.
She grabbed her suitcase and Jed and trundled them both through the lobby. And now the drunk outside seemed to be smirking at them as they walked out the front door. Ursula fought the urge to slap the smirk off his face, his outstretched hand away from her bosom. She trailed Jed to the sidewalk and faced him beside the mail box. She was trembling with confusion and a simmering rage.
“Jed!” she barked. “What's going on? What were ye up to in that plane ride over? Ye know, I had a strange feeling the things in me purse was somehow slightly off, in an odd place. Where's all wer money? Tell me now! Look at me now! Where's all wer money gone?!”
He forced his eyes to look into hers. There was shame and fear in those eyes.
“I think I did something terrible, honey.”
Ursula felt dread seep into her heart. She brought a hand up to her mouth.
“What is it? Ye've got me heart-feared now, Jed.”
“It's gonna be alright, dear. All we gotta do is phone Slim. He'll give us some money to tide us over. Until we get back home.”
“What did ye do?! Where does all wer money be?!”
Her voice rang out in the empty street.
“There...there was Internet on the plane. I saw a sticker on the back of the seat before me. I didn't know they had Internet on planes now. And, well, you were asleep, and I didn't like any of the movies they were showing, and I'd seen all the episodes of Law and Order they had—”
Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4) Page 34