A Wedding at O'Mara's (The Guesthouse on the Green Book 6)

by Michelle Vernal

  ‘I am, Aunty Nono.’ The little girl beamed at her. Emer had called her Aunty Nono when she was a tot and it had stuck. The two smiled at each other complicit in their understanding that no money would exchange hands but that Emer would be allowed to choose from an assortment of sweets to take upstairs later to munch on while her aunty carried on where they’d left off reading The Water-Babies the last time she’d stayed.

  ‘Well, one less gives me a break, fives an odd number so it is. It’s always four against one. Mammy told me to have another, even the number up or otherwise they’d be at each other day and night. She was right too.’ She realised who she was babbling on to. ‘Sorry, Noreen, that was thoughtless.’

  ‘Ah, you’re grand.’ Noreen brushed the comment away although the casualness with which her younger sister spoke of having children stung. How many tears had she shed month after month since she got married? Rosamunde could be a tactless mare. Sure, she’d have been happy with one baby to bounce on her knee let alone five. Children though were a blessing the good Lord hadn’t seen fit to bless her and Malachy with. It was something she’d grappled with and it had tested her faith but she was a good Catholic and, in the end, she’d listened to Father Michael who said God always had his reasons for doing what he did. He’d simply chosen a different path for her and Malachy, and it was up to her to steer them down it. She’d looked at things differently after that because her life was full of blessings. She had Malachy, they had their shop, and she made her mind up that God had bequeathed them the role of watching out for young Emer. It was a role she took seriously, very seriously indeed.

  ‘Well,’ Rosamunde said. ‘I’d best be getting off home, I’ve a million and one done things to do and you know how useless Terry is. The last time I left him in charge on a Saturday, I got home and he’d tossed a sheet over the kitchen table and made it into a tent for the children. But, had he washed a dish or made a bed? No, he had not.’

  Again, Noreen warded off the sting of her sister’s words. Rosamunde didn’t mean anything by it, she adored Terry as she adored her Malachy. He would have been the sort of dad who’d make a tent with a sheet over the kitchen table, too. She watched the way he was with Emer and it was bittersweet at times knowing he’d have made a grand daddy. She remembered herself. ‘Here, Rosamunde, before you go, take one of these for the others.’ She held out the jar with the lollipops and her sister smiled, ‘You spoil them, Noreen, but I won’t say no. One of them stuck in each of their gobs will give me some peace so it will.’

  Her sister left and Noreen and Emer looked at each smiling. ‘Now then, I’ve a box of tinned food needs putting away, do you think you can manage that, Emer?’

  ‘I do, Aunty NoNo.’

  ‘And then we’ll have a bowl of soup and toast for lunch. How does that sound?’

  ‘Grand, Aunty NoNo.’

  Noreen’s heart filled as she set the little girl her task and when Mrs Bunting bustled n wanting her order of bread and milk, she fussed over Emer exclaiming she was certain she’d grown this last while and wasn’t she a good girl helping her aunt so.

  Noreen had puffed up proud as she would have if Emer had been hers.

  THE KNOCK ON THE FITTING room door, startled her back to the present and it took her a moment to reconcile the reflection in the mirror with the same woman who used to cherish those times with Emer forty years ago, now.

  ‘How are you getting on, madam?’ There was an edge of concern in the woman’s voice and Noreen realised she’d been lost in her thoughts far longer than it should take to say yay or nay to a dress.

  ‘I’m grand.’

  ‘Is the size right, madam?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And does the jacket go well with it?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Noreen smoothed the shiny royal blue fabric and sighed. She’d had a slim waist once, a girlish waist but look at her now. ‘Put silk on a goat and it’s still a goat,’ she muttered deciding she might like the dress better in green. She wondered if the jacket the sales assistant had picked out came in green, too.

  Chapter 8

  Roisin followed her mammy through the car park, the sting of raindrops hitting her face despite her having pulled the hood of her coat up. The flight had been bumpy and she was feeling a little green around the gills.

  ‘You’ll be grand now you’re back on solid ground, Rosi,’ Maureen said, slowing her pace, ‘So then, was your boss man alright about you having a Friday off?’

  ‘He was, Mammy.’

  ‘Will you be seeing Shay while you’re here.’

  ‘I hope so. It’s not going to be easy finding time around everything Aisling’s got planned.’

  ‘Ah well, I’m sure you’ll manage. And what’s on Noah’s agenda for the weekend?’

  Roisin pulled a face. ‘Colin will be taking him out and showing him the high life in London like he always does and Granny Quealey will be after filling him full of all his favourite foods. He’ll have a grand time, so he will.’

  ‘I’m still his number one nana though.’ Maureen came to a screeching halt as she made a mental note to load Rosi up with her grandson’s favourite sweets to take home with her. ‘His Granny Quealey doesn’t have a dog and Noah loves Pooh. Sure, he thought he was the best thing since sliced bread when I put him in charge of picking up his doings on our walks last time he was over.’

  ‘He did, Mammy.’ Roisin was pleased her son’s fascination with the number two had waned His latest predilection seemed to be trying to talk to Mr Nibbles like Doctor Doolittle could. She’d overheard him holding a conversation with him the other day that went along the lines of, ‘Mr Nibbles, do you like lettuce or spinach better?’ ‘Lettuce. I don’t blame you. Spinach makes me want to sick-up too.’ She reassured her mammy, ‘And of course, you’re his number one.’

  Satisfied, Maureen carried on toward the grey-storied car parking building. ‘And do we ask how the gerbil is?’

  ‘Mr Nibbles is thriving, Mammy. Apparently, he prefers the lettuce leaf to spinach and sure, this will make you laugh.’ She relayed the tale of how Noah’s beloved gerbil had performed another of his Houdini acts when he’d been staying overnight at the Quealey house. Colin’s sour-faced mother had hit the roof when she found him nestled in the cup of her bra.

  ‘What!’ Maureen shrieked, envisaging all sorts of scenarios.

  Roisin laughed, ‘She wasn’t wearing it at the time. It was on her bed and he decided her left cup made a lovely nest to hunker down in.

  ‘Poor little thing, he lived to tell the tale obviously.’

  ‘He did, but Colin wasn’t popular with his mother. She said she felt violated and that the bra was her best Marks and Spencer’s one and she’d had to bin it. She blames him for getting Noah Mr Nibbles in the first place. You know how I felt about him having a pet initially too, but I’m used to having him about the place now and I’d miss the sound of his mad scrabbling if he wasn’t there.’

  They reached the car and Roisin spied the eager poodle strapped into the front seat.

  ‘You’re in the back, Rosi.’

  ‘But I feel sick and you know sitting in the back will only make it worse.’

  ‘Rosi, don’t be awkward. I can’t drive with a howling dog in the back, now can I?’ Maureen unlocked the car as Roisin opened the boot, lifting her case into it. She slammed it down mumbling something about a fecking dog coming before her eldest daughter as she ducked into the backseat. The poodle looked over the seat at her and she swore if she could talk to the animals like your man Doolittle, he’d have made a na-nana-naa-nah noise and stuck his paw to his nose to taunt her. She poked her tongue out at him.

  ‘Have you said hello to Pooh, Rosi?’ Maureen swivelled in her seat and Roisin knew they wouldn’t be going anywhere until she’d given the dog a fuss. She sighed and petted the top of his head; he lapped up the attention.

 
‘It’s lovely to see our Rosi isn’t it, Pooh? He’s been ever such a good boy after the you know what.’

  Roisin assumed she was talking about his having been neutered. Hopefully that meant the end of his amorous nose diving.

  ‘Yes,’ Maureen carried on, turning the key in the ignition. ‘Rosemary Farrell’s taken to calling in with a packet of doggy treats for him when she pops by. They’re getting on great guns the pair of them these days, so they are.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it,’ Roisin said, folding her arms across her chest as her mammy reversed out of the parking space. Mammy’s hair had kinked as Roisin’s was prone to doing with the wet weather and she looked from Pooh and then back to her mammy. ‘Did you know, Mammy, it is a scientific fact that people begin to resemble their dogs.’

  Maureen swung around in her seat. ‘I do not have facial hair, Roisin, thank you very much! If that’s what you’re getting at. It’s the women on your father’s side who all have the moustaches. It’s very hard to hold a conversation with your great aunty Noreen because you wind up staring at it and the more you tell yourself not to the more you find yourself doing so. You’d want to watch out because it is a scientific fact, young lady, that the facial hair gene follows the father’s side of the family.’

  ‘You made that up, Mammy, and would you watch where you’re going! We nearly hit that concrete bollard.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ Roisin walked in through the door of O’Mara’s dropping her suitcase down beside her as she surveyed the scene. She was still feeling nauseous from sitting in the back of the car and had spent the journey trying to focus on her breathing. She’d been tempted to get in Mammy’s ear when they’d stopped at the lights and chant her childhood mantra of ‘are we there yet’ but as it happened she hadn’t been able to get a word in which was annoying because she’d hoped she might be able, while they were on their own, to pump her for information about this mysterious man-friend of hers. She’d not said a word more since her New Year’s Eve announcement and refused to be drawn on the topic. She was the proverbial closed book. Moira and Aisling had tried and now it was Roisin’s turn. There’d been no chance though, Mammy had been full of the chat about the wedding and who the latest family member to announce they were coming was. Before she knew it, they were pulling up in front of the guesthouse.

  Now Maureen, with a tight hold on the prancing Pooh, shut the door behind them as Roisin checked out Aisling. Her sister was red in the face and looked sweaty which was an anomaly for the time of year. Come to that so was Bronagh. She frowned, noticing they were both dressed in their normal work attire yet Moira who didn’t have so much as a bead of sweat on her forehead was posed at the foot of the stairs looking like she could possibly be the niece of Jane Fonda and was about to follow in her footsteps by making her own fitness video.

  ‘How’re ye, Rosi.’ Aisling made to embrace her sister.

  ‘Get off, wait until you’ve had a shower. What are you three up to?’ She shot a look that conveyed the same sentiment to Bronagh.

  ‘You’ve heard about our friendly little competition?’ Moira asked, knowing full well she had because she’d written down Rosi’s bet in her trusty notebook.

  ‘I have.’ Roisin wasn’t owning up to who she was backing though. Bronagh could be fierce when she wanted to be. She surreptitiously looked from the two slimming competitors to see if either of them was looking a little less full in the face. Neither woman looked much different in her opinion.

  ‘It’s ridiculous. Two grown women competing to see who can lose weight the fastest,’ Maureen tutted. She was backing Bronagh all the way despite her custard cream affliction or should that be addiction? Either way she knew Aisling inside and out. Her daughter took after her Nanna Dee and not just with her colouring. When she was under pressure, you’d be sure to find her with a gob full of something she’d helped herself to from the pantry. Nanna Dee had been exactly the same. ‘I suggested they come along to line-dancing with myself and Rosemary Farrell. It’s exercise that doesn’t feel like exercise, Rosemary says. She loves it, so she does, although between us she’s not very coordinated, always turning the wrong way and sticking the wrong leg out.’ Maureen gave a demonstration of her new found line-dancing skills. ‘I can do it better when I’ve got my boots on,’ she said with a final clap of her hands.

  ‘Since when did you like Country and Western, Mammy?’ Roisin asked.

  ‘I love Country and Western,’ Maureen said. ‘It always gets the toes a-tapping.’

  ‘News to me.’ Roisin shook her head. ‘And what exactly are you doing, Moira?’

  ‘Well,’ Moira said, her hand resting on the bannister at the bottom of the stairs, a study of casualness in her active wear. ‘Like I was saying before Mammy interrupted and gave us all her best Billy Ray Cyrus impersonation. I’ve decided to take on the role of personal trainer.’

  ‘Good of you,’ Roisin muttered, glancing at Bronagh and Aisling sympathetically.

  It was Bronagh that piped up, ‘She tried to make us pay her. Can you believe that?’

  Roisin could quite believe it of her youngest sister. She took the opportunity to look at Bronagh’s skirt. It was still straining across her middle but there was a possibility there weren’t quite so many creases there as there’d been a month ago. She wondered if Moira might let her change her bet.

  ‘And we told her to feck off,’ Aisling added.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies.’ Moira tossed her ponytail indignantly, reminding Roisin of Black Beauty and she half expected her to whinny. She didn’t but her voice did take on a braying timbre. ‘This is my time.’ She tapped her watch for effect. ‘I could be in bed with a cup of tea and a plate of toast but I decided to get down these stairs and help you two along the road to weight loss success and do I get so much as thank you?’ She looked to Roisin and her mammy expecting them to agree it was terribly ungrateful behaviour on Aisling and Bronagh’s part. Roisin had already decided she wasn’t getting caught in the middle and as for Maureen she gave Aisling a stingy flick on the backside as she caught sight of her giving her sister a rude finger sign.

  ‘Don’t you be doing things like that down here, Aisling. You know better than that. Sure, what would our guests think if they were to walk in and see their hostess giving them the finger.’

  ‘I wasn’t doing it at any of our guests, Mammy, and that hurt.’

  ‘Yes, but they wouldn’t know that would they?’

  Roisin sighed she was home alright.

  ‘Well, tell her to stop going on, Mammy,’ Aisling whined.

  ‘I’ll bang both your heads together in a minute, so I will.’

  ‘How’s Pooh getting on, since his,’ Bronagh mouthed the word, ‘snip?’

  ‘He’s doing ever so well. Top of the class at puppy school. They all looked to where the puppy had a leg cocked threateningly over by the sofa.

  ‘Pooh!’ Maureen herded him out the door reappearing a moment later. It’s alright,’ she said. ‘It was a number one, that’s all. He’s going through a phase of marking his territory. I think it’s the trauma after the, you know what. He’s feeling insecure.’

  ‘Well you can’t blame him now, can you?’ Bronagh petted the dog. She was feeling a lot more affection for the fellow now he wasn’t constantly trying to assault her. It was the wrong thing to do – there was life in the old dog (so to speak) yet it would seem. ‘Get down, you naughty boy,’ she shrieked.

  ‘Right,’ Roisin interjected. ‘I want to get this case upstairs because as lovely as it is standing about in reception listening to you lot carrying on, I’ve a phone call to make before we head off to the bridal shop.’

  ‘Lover boy?’ Moira asked, blocking the stairs.

  ‘If you mean Shay, then yes. He knows this weekend is all about Aisling and the wedding but I’m sure we can manage to squeeze in a catch-up. Maybe tonight; there’s not much planned this evening is there, Ash?’

  Aisling shook her hea
d.

  ‘It’s not a catch-up you’re after, it’s a ride,’ Moira said. ‘A gallop around the track with your stallion,’ she added lewdly.

  ‘Moira O’Mara, have you forgotten your mammy is standing right here.’

  Silence fell as a thought occurred to all three sisters simultaneously. Their eyes swung to their mammy. Could she be...? Nooo! they silently screamed. That would be wrong on so many counts. Moira decided to change the subject, still not allowing Roisin to pass.

  ‘Mammy, you’re not wearing those out, are you? Sure, you’ve worn the material across the arse so thin I can tell you what colour your knickers are. Wedding boutiques are posh places not geriatric strip joints.’

  Maureen glanced down at the yoga pants she’d commandeered off Roisin the last time she’d come to stay. They were her favourites, her trusty go-tos for comfort and ability to bend, stride and lunge. Her eyes darted toward Roisin’s case and she wondered if she’d packed any more. She’d try her luck later. Now though, she had a mouthy daughter to contend with. ‘It’s called common sense, Moira. They’re very easy to whip on and off for trying outfits on, thank you, and your posh wedding shop woman won’t giving a flying fig what any of us are wearing so long as we splash the cash.’

  Aisling thought Mammy had a point there. The bridal shop woman, she’d gleaned from her dealings with her over the telephone, was a bit of a fecky brown noser type, she’d get on well with Patrick.