The Importance of Being Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

  ‘So is she – what’s her name again? – going to be there after Christmas?’

  ‘Imelda? No, she finished up on Friday. I wouldn’t be surprised if she stuffed a trout behind a whiteboard or something. She’d be that type. No great loss anyway.’

  ‘And who’s taking her job?’

  Majella has been teaching second class at St Anthony’s in Santry for five years now. Being the Communion year, she’s flat out, but she likes the variety. It’s mostly based around learning off ‘Zacchaeus was a Greedy Little Man’ with some maths and phonics and a nature table thrown in for good measure. I nearly did teaching myself – got more than enough points for St Pat’s or Mary I – and sometimes I’m sorry I didn’t. Majella and her flatmates, Mairead and Fionnuala, are always getting their hair cut at 4 p.m. on a Wednesday and jetting off to the Canaries for mid-term breaks. Maybe I’ll look into doing a HDip. I’m very patient and I like a bit of discipline.

  ‘No idea. There’s a constant stream of CVs coming in. Everyone wants a permanent teaching job, so they’ll have no problem filling it.’

  ‘Have you thought about going for it yourself?’

  Maj looks over at me, her brow furrowed. ‘It hadn’t even entered my head,’ she goes. ‘Do you think I’d be able for it? The deputy principal has fifth class as well as all the admin and the rest of it. I think I’d miss dossing in the church and all the glamour of the Communion.’

  The parents at St Anthony’s don’t mess around. Last year one family arrived to the church in a limo. Another eight-year-old had her hair done in Toni & Guy and a very suspicious all-over tan to make the white dress pop. It can be very competitive, but Majella loves getting done up because she’s in high demand for pictures on the day. She says it makes her feel like a celebrity, which is fair enough.

  ‘Of course you’d be well able for it, Maj,’ I say encouragingly. ‘I’m sure you’d get a nice pay rise too. Maybe you and the girls could find a place with another bathroom? And it would cut down on fights over the Lenor.’

  Mairead is notoriously tight when it comes to the household kitty, and Maj and Fionnuala suspect she hasn’t bought a drop of fabric softener since she moved in three years ago. Mairead and Fionnuala are good craic but they run a tight ship. I’ve always stopped short of writing my name on my shampoo and conditioner, but Majella’s housemates have their own special waterproof markers.

  ‘Actually, I had kind of a mad idea last weekend when I was Down Home,’ Majella says sheepishly.

  ‘Well?’ I say, moving up to fourth gear for the first time. The traffic is as bad as I’ve ever seen it. It’s like the days before my beloved Newlands Cross flyover opened. ‘Spill it.’

  ‘I was thinking of moving back Down Home. Like, permanently. Letting my room in Phibsboro go and going up and down to work on the Timoney’s bus. I’d save money and see more of Pablo to boot. We could have a deposit in a few years.’

  I’m gobsmacked. Majella? Moving Down Home? Majella loves Ballygobbard as much as me – loves the coleslaw in Filan’s, loves the craic in Maguire’s, loves the matches – but I always thought she loved Coppers on a Thursday more than all those things combined. I’m shook, to be honest.

  ‘Sure half the country is at it, Ais. Rent is crippling. Our shower is broken, but we’re too afraid to remind the landlord we exist in case the miserable fecker charges us more. So we’re just coping with it. You have to kind of hold it over you, trying to wash yourself with the other hand. It’s extremely undignified. I nearly landed out onto the floor the other day. Promise me, if I die falling out of the shower you’ll put nice knickers on me before any ridey guards come? And make sure they use one of my last three Facebook profile pictures on the news.’

  ‘I promise,’ I say solemnly.

  ‘Would I be mad to do it, Ais?’ she asks in a small voice.

  I know you’re not supposed to do it under any circumstances but we’re only going about 40km an hour, so for a split second I take my eyes off the road and look straight at her.

  ‘Not at all, girl,’ I beam. ‘You’re in love.’

  She smiles back at me. ‘I am. Seeing him at the weekends just isn’t enough, and he can’t afford to live in Dublin in a million years with the price of it.’ She takes a breath. ‘Are you sure I’m not a big gom?’

  ‘Well, that goes without saying …’ I duck as she fires a green wine gum – the worst one – in my direction.

  ‘How are you feeling about the redundancy?’

  ‘I still can’t really believe it, Maj. Can you? Let go, right before Christmas. Dire.’

  ‘You’ll get a great reference,’ she says confidently. ‘You’ll find something in no time. You’re very employable with all the health and safety certificates you’ve racked up.’

  I have to hand it to Majella. Even though she’s an absolute hames ninety-nine per cent of the time, she can be very pragmatic when the mood takes her. It must be the teacher training. ‘It’s just a job – plenty more where that came from. It’s Christmas week – you’ve had your shopping done and wrapped since October, I’m guessing?’

  She’s right there. ‘You’re right, of course.’ I actually started back in the January sales but no point in bringing it up now. It’s not the time to gloat.

  ‘It’s actually great timing. Everyone is off for the next couple of weeks so we’ll have loads of time to figure it out. And don’t forget, you’ll probably be getting a load of dosh.’

  She’s right again.

  ‘If you’re worried about paying your rent, you could always move Down Home too. Sure, you can stay with John when you need a break from your mother. You and him will be living together in no time.’

  It just rolls off her tongue, and I haven’t the heart to tell her that we haven’t even discussed it. How do I explain that I’m worried John and I would have nothing to talk about after all this time? I barely even understand it myself.

  Instead I pick up on her other point. ‘Yeah, Sadhbh already suggested that. We’re going to have to move out of Chez SEA anyway after the wedding. Mammy is lonely. Wouldn’t it be nice to mind each other for a while? And all the better if you’re around too. It might even be a bit of craic.’

  ‘Will you move back down with her for good? Not in with John?’ Majella sounds surprised and grimaces as she shoves a green one into her mouth.

  ‘I don’t know, Maj. I don’t know.’

  My brother Paul has been home from Australia since Daddy died but I know he’s itching to go back. The rest of the lads went on fruit picking without him and now they’re moving on to Melbourne, and there’s talk of getting real jobs and a proper flat with rooms and beds and not the pile of coats or whatever they were all sleeping on in County Coogee. It’s a chance to make some real money. I’ve told him it’s up to him – I won’t hold him back. But at the same time I’m a bit worried about having to do all the looking-after Mammy myself. It would be easier if I was at home, I suppose. Auntie Sheila is around, of course, and the neighbours have been incredible, but I’m feeling a bit, I don’t know, responsible. It’s a lot, even for me.

  ‘God, Ais, could you imagine, both of us living at home again!’

  She has a point there. We can survive anything, me and Maj, once we’re together. The first year we went to the Gaeltacht is proof of that. She hadn’t a word of Irish and would have been sent home if it wasn’t for me hissing verbs and declarations about the weather to her. We used to have a secret Club Béarla in a locked bathroom every evening, where we’d whisper frantically in English about what we’d just had for dinner. How she’s now teaching Irish to children is beyond me.

  ‘Me and Mammy might kill each other, though.’ I’m worried that we might without Daddy there to mediate. Although, I’ve become a full grown-up in the last few months. Like, I was already grown up, but now it’s gone beyond not being afraid of driving on the M50 and having health insurance. You never know when you might find yourself with kidney stones up the side of an African mounta
in or whatever other scenarios those ads scare you with.) Fighting with Mammy isn’t really on any more. We have to mind each other. Our relationship has definitely changed for the better – we talk more, hug more – but I’m worried it won’t last if she starts demanding my whites for washing and timing my morning showers – all very likely to happen. She’s extremely frugal when it comes to hot water. Majella and I are quiet and deep in thought as we clear the worst of the traffic and fly down the motorway, bound for BGB.

  After mulling over the pros (clean sheets every Friday; unlimited apple tart) and cons (Mammy’s long-standing love of Mrs Brown’s Boys), Majella eventually says thoughtfully, ‘I think you and Marian will be grand.’ Then she opens the Pringles and passes me a little stack. ‘And at least there’s loads of room in your place. It’ll be a tight squeeze in Mammy and Daddy’s, although I’d pay them a bit of rent, of course, and they’d be glad of that with Daddy not working much at the moment.’ Shem Moran, Majella’s father, has been in and out of work for as long as I can remember. A bit of boiler maintenance here and a bit of painting and decorating there. Mrs Moran is a teacher, like Majella, and keeps the house going as well as doing a few scones for Filan’s. Majella pipes up again. ‘At least Daddy will have something to say to Pablo now that he’s started training with the Rangers.’

  ‘Come again, girl?’ I say, cocking my head towards her as I finally turn on to Main Street BGB, where the massive town Christmas tree is twinkling in the distance. I’ve been dreading this moment and sure enough I feel a hard lump form in my throat. Christmas. Without Daddy. Our first Christmas without Daddy.

  I blink back tears as we wait patiently behind a car unloading wreaths for sale at a little street stall, and I notice there are more people than usual around. Some are dipping into Geraldine’s boutique for some last-minute present ideas – she does a good line in floaty scarves, which is always a rock-solid Mammy gift. A few are heading into the charity shop too, no doubt picking up the Christmas tags designed by the children from the primary school. They’re a BGB tradition, even though a monkey with a paintbrush could probably do a better job. On the corner I can see a small queue forming outside Boland’s butchers: people collecting the turkeys they ordered back in October and picking up some of Marty Boland’s famous sausages. There are more signs and declarations about the sausages around the red-and-white-tiled exterior than I thought possible – ‘Best Sausages in the “County”!’ ‘You’ve Tried the “Rest” Now Try the “Best”!’ He’s very proud of them, but could go easy on the quotation marks. There’s a ‘Leased’ sign plastered over the Scissor Sisters façade beside Boland’s. Róisín will be badly missed. I’ve been a loyal Scissor Sisters fan since my debs, but she had to let the premises go when she got pregnant with her third baby and it turned out to be twins. Four under five – she has her work cut out for her. A few more locals are coming and going from Filan’s, and I’m glad. The Aldi out near Knock hasn’t done the local shop any favours, although they’ve been doing their best to diversify with the Linda McCartney fake chicken nuggets and the introduction of a third till.

  Majella’s still talking and shakes me out of my reverie. ‘I was just saying Daddy and Pablo have something to talk about now,’ she says. ‘It’ll make things easier when he moves in.’

  Without thinking I hit the brakes and the car comes screeching to an abrupt stop outside the butcher’s. Marty Boland looks up suddenly from where he’s shoulder deep in a festive ham display. I’m in such a state of shock I don’t even think to mouth an apology.

  I swing back around to face Majella.

  ‘You’re going to ask Pablo? To move in? To your parents’ house?’

  I’ve heard it all now.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Hiya, Mammy.’

  She’s home more often than not now when I arrive at the house. ‘Sure where would I be going?’ she always says with a sad sigh in her voice that breaks my heart. I’m not able for letting things get too sad, though, because I’m worried I might start crying and never stop. The C-word hasn’t been uttered once in the house or between us, even though it’s only a few days away now. Our first Christmas without Daddy. I feel sick at the thought of it. Who’s going to go out and buy the tree, making best friends with the man selling them outside Knocknamanagh Garden Centre, if they even have any left? Who’s going to put the lights on the big ash tree out the front? Mammy loves that tree at Christmas, partly because Una Hatton called it ‘gaudy’ two years ago. Well, she said it was ‘lovely and gaudy,’ but Mammy knew what she was getting at. The Hattons are Protestants and only have very tasteful matching wreaths on their gate and front door and only the one colour of light on their tree, twinkling through the bay window. Mammy went and bought an extra multicoloured string last year and, to be honest, I don’t even think she knew she was muttering the word ‘gaudy’ to herself as Daddy dutifully leaned the ladder against the tree to put them up. Maybe Paul could make a last-ditch attempt at it this year? Although, do we even want to put them up? I’d love to cancel the whole thing to be quite honest.

  ‘Any news, pet?’ Mammy smiles weakly. She looks tired and older than her sixty-three years these days. I hadn’t planned on mentioning anything about the redundancy until later, but as soon as I see her, I can’t fight the urge to pour my heart out. I lower myself into the cat’s armchair in the corner of the kitchen with a sigh. I’ll be rotten with hairs but feck it.

  ‘I got a bit of bad news on Friday, actually. Our parent company in work is closing the Dublin office and …’ I pause, ‘we’re all being made redundant.’ My voice wobbles a bit.

  Mammy stops in her tracks and puts her hand to her mouth. ‘What? Ah no, Aisling. The absolute lousers! And all the work you’ve done for them. What are you going to do?’

  I knew she’d take it badly so I’m well prepared.

  ‘I’ll be okay, Mammy. I’ll get a good payout, I’m sure. It could be a good lump in my case, seeing as I’m there a few years.’

  She still looks like she’s been shot so I hurriedly add, ‘I’ve already set up email alerts from all the websites for possible new jobs.’ I logged on first thing this morning and scoured the listings. If there are worms to be caught, I’m going to be the punctual bird that pecks them up.

  ‘What about the Micra?’

  Mammy has become obsessed with keeping the cars running since Daddy died. She’s convinced that now he’s not here to check the oil and kick the tyres we’re all going to go hurtling off the side of a cliff due to neglected brakes.

  ‘I just had it serviced – one less thing to worry about anyway.’ I’m eager to get out of this conversation.

  Mammy steps forward and puts her arm around my shoulders. ‘You poor craythur. I’ll put on the kettle.’

  ****

  On the spur of the moment I decide to take the Christmas decorations out of the garage. I don’t want to go the whole hog with the inflatable reindeer for the lawn – Daddy loved an Aldi special buy – but a few stuffed Santas might make the house look less sad. There’s a stack of unopened post, obviously Christmas cards, on the kitchen dresser, and I feel a fresh wave of grief rising inside of me. No Christmas cards from us this year. It’s not the done thing.

  I invited Majella over for an emergency glass of Pinot Greej to discuss the Pablo bombshell, and by the time she arrives at the back door, a bottle in each hand, I’ve hung up a few sprigs of holly and put the crib on the hall table, making a mental note to go out to the back shed for some straw tomorrow. Mammy insists on an authentic crib, although an unfortunate incident in the late nineties has meant one of the wise men is now made of Lego, but it wouldn’t be the same without him at this stage. We’ve no tree yet but maybe we just won’t bother.

  ‘Well, did you tell them?’

  ‘Not yet, no. I need some Dutch courage first.’

  Majella’s parents are very open-minded – for example, they know all about her brother Shane smoking hash while waxing his Subaru in the garage eve
ry night and say nothing – but I think even the Morans would draw the line at her shacking up under their roof. I know Mammy wouldn’t really like it if it was me and John and no ring involved. And don’t get me started on John’s mammy. His parents scare the shite out of me and always have. They’re mad Catholics the pair of them. Fran is a nurse, but she’d be in mass twenty-four hours a day if she could, and they always sit right in the front row to prove they’re never late. She’s hosted Padre Pio’s glove twice and is a competitive blackcurrant jam maker as well as being secretary of the local ICA guild. And his daddy is not much better, although at least he lets his hair down in Maguire’s every once in a while. Oh, they’re both very nice to me, of course – I’m from good people – but I wouldn’t want to cross either of them. I can tell she’s been torn for years about wanting me and John to get married to absolve any sin at all we might have built up between us, and trying to hold on to her precious little altar boy for as long as possible.

  Maj pops in to the sitting room to say hello to Mammy while I pour the wine and try to locate some nibbles. Nothing to be found. She doesn’t even have the Christmas RTÉ Guide. How will I know when the good films are on? I’ll have to bring her in to do the Big Shop in the next day or two. People will be calling and we’ll need to have something to offer them, especially the Hattons. They’ll probably be expecting jam with their cheese or some other Protestant nonsense.

  ‘She’s very quiet, isn’t she?’ Majella notes, closing the kitchen door behind her and taking a seat at Mammy’s fancy Considered by Helen James kitchen table, bought specially to impress Sadhbh and Elaine on their maiden voyage to BGB last year. Not that she’ll ever admit it, of course.

  ‘It’s hard.’ I sigh, pushing a glass towards Majella. ‘But we’ll be grand. We just need to get through it. Auntie Sheila is having us over for the dinner so it’ll be good to get out of the house. She puts on a lovely spread – sausage meat in the stuffing and all.’