His smile wanes a bit as he thrusts the small box at me, and I weigh it in my hands for a second, trying to guess what it could be. Nothing like the anticipation of a present. Ripping off the paper I see the familiar branding pop out at me.
‘Oooh, Pandora!’ I can’t help but feel a nudge of disappointment, though. This won’t be the first Pandora he’s gotten me. Still, though, I’m sure it’s lovely.
Sliding open the box and moving the layer of tissue paper aside, my heart drops a little. ‘Ah, it’s lovely.’
He bites his lip. ‘Do you not like it?’
‘No, no, it’s lovely. But …’
I hold out my arm and pull up the sleeve of my Christmas jumper. John looks from my wrist to the box and back again.
‘They’re not … they’re not the exact same, are they?’ he stammers.
They are. They’re the exact same. Two Christmases in a row.
‘I have the receipt,’ he babbles. ‘I’ll get you something else. I’ll bring it back.’
‘It’s grand, love. It’s grand. I’ll do it.’ I laugh to ease the awkwardness but he’s raging with himself, I can tell. ‘Honestly, John, it’s grand. It’s the thought that counts. I love it. Again.’
‘Ah, Ais, I’m sorry. I should have tried harder. You went to so much trouble and I …’
Like me buying his mammy’s slippers, I have a feeling John’s mammy has been buying me the Pandora bracelets. He suddenly looks sad and I grab him in a hug and whisper, ‘Happy Christmas.’ He hugs me back even tighter, and we sit like that for minutes.
Eventually he releases me and stretches out his arms. ‘I better hit the road. Fran is making soup before mass and I’ll be killed if I’m late.’
He stands up and holds his arms out again, and I fold myself into them.
‘Happy Christmas, love.’
I don’t say anything, I just rest my head on his shoulder, turn my face in to his chest and breathe deeply. It’s only a bracelet, isn’t it?
****
It’s an odd Christmas Eve. We skip the traditional sausages and mash for dinner and just have sandwiches instead. We watch Santy take off from the North Pole on the six o’clock news as usual – he always sounds like he’s from Roscommon or Wexford; a very local Santy, it must be said – but instead of the rush then to get ready for mass and the pub, we settle down in the front room, a tin of sweets within everyone’s reach and Scrooged on the telly. Nobody has spoken for at least fifteen minutes, alone in their thoughts, when Mammy suddenly gets up out of her chair and walks quickly out of the room. ‘What’s that about?’ Paul is going for a Strawberry Dream, the animal. I’m a fan of the nutty ones. Partial to a purple, if it’s going.
‘Dunno, maybe she’s getting her phone?’ Mammy’s deep distrust of her smartphone still hasn’t left her, and she often hides it in her bedroom in case it tries to get her to do something she doesn’t understand. She heard about scam phone calls on Liveline and now everybody is a suspect, even Auntie Sheila. But when she comes back into the room it’s not a phone. She has two envelopes in her hand.
‘These are for you, for Christmas.’ She hands us one each. The scrawly handwriting on the front makes my stomach leap into my throat.
‘They’re from Daddy.’
Chapter 8
I have it in my pocket when the doorbell goes. I run my fingers along the edge of the envelope as Una Hatton holds out her glass for a Baileys top up. We weren’t expecting the usual throng of post-mass Christmas-morning visitors, but we knew Majella and the Hattons at least would call in. And Tessie Daly from the charity shop. It’s very much a case of too many cooks in there. Mammy has already started going back a couple of mornings a week, and Tessie has been very good to her, letting her sort clothes out the back when dealing with well-meaning customers got a bit too much.
Niamh Hatton is over talking to Paul, twirling the wooden beads around her neck between her fingers as I trace the outline of the card beneath the thin material of my skirt (Dorothy Perkins in the pre-Christmas sale – a lovely red check and a jumper to match). I bet you anything even the wood of Niamh’s necklace is recycled. If wood can be recycled, that is. I’m sure it can. If they can recycle toilet paper they can recycle anything. Niamh is sipping from a glass of water, having rejected a Baileys offered by Paul and a cube of Wensleydale stuck under her nose by Majella, mouthing, ‘Vegan, sorry’ and ‘Oh no, lovey, I can’t, I’m vegan.’
‘Did you know she’s a vegan?’ Maj whispers sarcastically as she passes me on her way back to the kitchen. There’s no love lost between Majella and Niamh – Niamh protested dissecting a hare’s heart in sixth year and Majella has always blamed her for the C3 she got in Leaving Cert Biology. After three vodkas she’ll tell you the whole year failed, but I got a B1, although I usually just leave her off to have her rant. And Niamh has always claimed Maj is the reason Neil Ferrissy dumped her, but nobody has ever been able to prove the affair and Maj is not one to kiss and tell so who knows.
‘Niamh from Across the Road is looking well.’ Paul whistles as he pushes past me to sit on the couch. Niamh Hatton has lived across the road from me my whole life. She graduated from hosting an annual Amnesty International table quiz when we were in school to living in New York doing something with recycled Converse and yoga and posting pictures on Facebook of tiny cups of coffee and elaborate plates of leaves titled ‘This vegan life’ or simply ‘Brunch!’ How many times a week can one person eat brunch? I must admit I’ve developed a fondness for it myself since moving to Dublin, thanks to Elaine and Sadhbh and their insistance that only animals eat breakfast or lunch at the weekend, but I think even they’d say Niamh needs to calm down with the acai bowls. Her clothes are all various hues of wheat too, and I doubt she’s ever suffered the indignity of a pair of fally-down tights from Penneys.
I take the opportunity of nobody talking to me to escape to the bathroom. Locking the door behind me and sinking down onto the edge of the bath, I pull the envelope out of my pocket. It’s already curling at the edges. I’ll have to put it inside a heavy book to keep it good. My Maeve Binchy anthology, maybe, or that Colette Green beauty manual Majella got me for my last birthday. Who knew you could get sixteen pages out of colouring in your eyebrows? ‘Aisling’ is scrawled across the small envelope in his unmistakable hand. I slide out the card, a Christmas penguin in a scarf on the front. One from a charity set Mammy brought home from the shop last year, each one worth one-fiftieth of a well in Africa or something. I open the card for at least the tenth time in the last twelve hours.
‘Happy Christmas, pet. Buy yourself something nice. Love, Daddy.’
Just the sight of his handwriting makes me catch my breath. The curl of the y, the swooping l – so familiar it winds me and I have to grip the edge of the bath to steady myself. A crisp €50 note is folded across in half, pinned to the inside cover of the card with a paperclip. There wouldn’t have been a paper clip if the card was being posted, mind. Scammers would feel it and know there was money inside. We know all the tricks.
He gave the cards to Mammy months ago. When he was almost all there but not quite. Worrying already about Christmas presents he might not be around to give. I run my finger over the ‘Love, Daddy’ and give a big shuddering sigh. I slide the card back into its little envelope, taking care not to catch the paper clip. Back into my pocket it goes. Back out to the Baileys and the low hum of Mammy telling Tessie about what Constance Swinford said about the building site over on the Garbally Road, and Paul telling Don Hatton what the Kerrygold situation in Bondi is like.
‘I’m actually going to be moving home,’ Majella is saying matter-of-factly to Niamh as I rejoin them in the front room. ‘And Ais might too,’ she says, turning to welcome me, mouthing a ‘thank fuck’ as she does.
‘Oh, you’re moving home too, Aisling?’ Niamh tilts her head.
‘Well, no. I haven’t decided what I’m doing. I … I’m about to be offered redundancy and I’m taking it. So …’ Offered redu
ndancy doesn’t sound quite as bad as ‘made redundant.’
‘I’d say your mum is delighted.’ Niamh smiles. She’s not that bad, to be fair to her. I turn back to Majella to change the subject, though. I haven’t even mentioned the idea to Mammy and now is not the time to be getting into it.
‘BGB won’t know what hit it with Maj back in town.’ I nudge Majella and smile, while Niamh’s face takes on a look of concern.
‘Did the primary teaching turn out to be a bit much after all or …?’
Majella grits her teeth. ‘I’m actually moving home to save some money. To save for a house with my …’ she pauses for unmistakable dramatic effect, ‘boyfriend.’
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Niamh look put out, but that’s how she looked leaving to go home for her nut roast. Majella cheerfully told her about Pablo and how he’s from Tenerife and how brown he goes in the sun, and I realise I never even asked about how the chat with Shem and Liz went. The second Niamh is out the door I pounce on her.
‘Well? What did they say about Pablo moving in?’
‘Oh, Ais, you should have seen Shem’s face.’ Shem Moran contemplating a Spaniard moving into his house is something I would pay good money to see. I’d say he was puce.
‘Mammy seemed to kind of like the idea. She likes Pablo. He’s always complimenting her and saying he’s never seen potatoes cooked so many ways before. He says he likes her “hanging waskets” too and, sure, she’s delighted. Shem’s not so convinced. So I says to him, “Shem.” ’ Majella calls her father Shem when she’s needling him for something. It only serves to drive him even madder. ‘I says, “Shem, it’s either he moves in here or you spend the next year driving me out to the Ard Rí or wherever to see him.” That shut him up.’
‘So he’s moving in?’
‘He’s moving in,’ she confirms with a beam and a satisfied nod of her head. ‘In fact, he’s at home now trying to convince them to put mojo sauce on the turkey instead of gravy.’ Shem and Pablo sharing a bathroom and a remote. This should be interesting.
****
The rest of Christmas Day passes in a bit of a blur. It’s strange going to Auntie Sheila’s for dinner, but she insisted. It’s the first time ever we haven’t been in our own house for the turkey, and the thought of the table sitting there empty makes me sad. Also, my cousin Doireann had just folded the serviettes in half and put them beside the placemats. The table was definitely missing the flourish of my traditional and signature ‘shaken out napkin in a glass’ decoration. Very elegant.
John rings as we’re on the way home to see if I want him to call down, but going to someone else’s house on Christmas Night is practically against the law. You’re not supposed to see anyone but your family. Besides, I’ll see him tomorrow.
Elaine texts and Sadhbh rings too, sneaking out of a family row over Monopoly and whether or not her brother has been abusing his position as the banker. She’s giddy on Prosecco, having started drinking at midday. How is she not in a heap? Maj was going home earlier to get stuck into the Bucks Fizz. I have images of Shem with Pablo in a headlock at this stage. Sadhbh thanks me for being a good friend and an even better housemate and drunkenly says she’s going to miss me lecturing her on the difference between a hand towel and tea towel. I feel like she could start crying so I gently remind her that I’ll be seeing her in a few days for the wedding. The call ends abruptly then when she stands on a hotel and signs off, swearing, and I stick my head into the front room and announce that I’m heading up to bed. It’s only half nine but I’m glad to see the back of the day. Paul is glued to James Bond surfing a speedboat in his knickers and Mammy is dozing on the couch. I put on my new pyjamas (thanks, Mammy), wrap my hair up in my new Colette Green turban to clean my face (thanks, Majella) and slide the little envelope out of my skirt, lying on the chair in the corner. I gently pull the carefully folded fifty euro note and the paper clip off the card and lean over to pluck my wallet out of my bag, sliding the fifty into the compartment at the back along with Daddy’s laminated mass card. You never know when I might need it.
Chapter 9
As much as I’d been dreading Christmas these last few months, I could never say a bad word about Stephenses Day. It’s no exaggeration to say it’s one of the highlights of my social calendar – every pub in BGB and Knock will be hopping from early afternoon, with people dying to show off their Christmas presents and get away from their families. And then it’s always on to the Vortex ‘till late’, aka 2 a.m.
You’d think my gang would be sick of going to the Vortex, considering we’ve been at it since we were seventeen, but it’s tradition, plus John always gets us in for free because being the Rangers centre forward gives him a certain gravitas around here. At least it’s not too far, slap bang between BGB and Knock and attached to the side of the Mountrath Hotel. The décor hasn’t changed since well before we first started going there, I should add – peeling yellow ceilings, 1970s wallpaper and sticky carpets all the way into the toilet cubicles and halfway up the walls. No problem bringing your drink onto the dancefloor in the Vortex either. The place has one bouncer – Jamesie Kelly – who’s supposed to mind the entire Mountrath, so pints being sloshed around to ‘I Gotta Feeling’ and ‘Sex on Fire’ are the least of his problems, especially since it’s become so popular with stags looking for a cheap place to go outside Dublin. He spends most of his time trying to control roaming gangs of Father Teds and Where’s Wallys, God love him. And him on a crutch.
‘I’d say you’d want to book Terry Crowley early, pet,’ Mammy says, coming in to the bathroom where I’m putting on my make-up. While Majella has taken to doing a full face with her Colette Green products, I’m still loyal to my bit of tinted moisturiser, brown mascara and Heather Shimmer. She tried to contour me once and it was the closest both of us ever came to dying laughing; I was like a blended toffee apple. And anyway, aren’t freckles a thing of beauty? You wouldn’t want to cover them up. Sadhbh has persuaded me to do a flick of black liquid eyeliner the odd time but I have a shaky hand and I’d be afraid to start by myself in case I couldn’t stop and I just had to keep making it thicker and longer, like when I used to cut my Barbie’s hair: it was never just a trim.
Another day, another little reminder of Daddy’s absence. ‘Dad’s Taxi’ – he had the bumper stickers to prove it. He was always only a text away on Stephenses night, waiting up specially with one eye on the racing highlights and the other on his phone. But no, I’ll have to book Terry Crowley to get us all home later. Oh, I could chance standing outside the Mountrath at half two and hoping for the best but that wouldn’t exactly be my style, and I’m fairly sure none of the others would have the foresight to book him either.
Rain or shine, Terry has his window down and elbow out, all the better to roar a ‘well, head’ or ‘hup’ to anyone he passes when he’s booting down either BGB’s or Knock’s respective main streets. He has a grand seven-seater and has been known to squeeze in eleven of us after a wedding or a twenty-first, whipping up and down the pitch-black back roads and pot-holed lanes, firing people out and collecting tenners. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he had some kind of government interrogation training. His line of questioning can get that intrusive. Daddy applied for planning permission for a new calving shed once, and Terry was just short of shining a light in my face trying to extract the finer details of the plans. Although, if you’re looking to know who just sold five acres or whether there’s anyone in the funeral home, he’s your man.
‘Will do, Mammy.’ I smile back at her weakly. Auntie Sheila will probably call down for a while but other than that she’ll be in the house on her own, having rejected various invitations to cards nights and drops of sherry in houses around the village. Unless Paul is willing to sacrifice his Stephenses night and stay in with her, but that’s highly unlikely when he’s due to go back to Oz next week. I don’t think he’s noticed how down Mammy is. She’s even stopped hiding the good biscuits. It’s not like her, not like h
er at all.
I’m just checking the time on my phone – 3.30 p.m. – when Majella texts.
‘Maguire’s @ 4?’
I feel so guilty for even thinking it, but I’m looking forward to getting out of the house myself. It’s been hard to put on the brave face, to mindlessly eat the Roses and drink the minerals while acting like we’re not all just trying to survive this nightmare. I can’t wait to go to the pub and talk and laugh and be a normal person for a few hours.
While magazines make a big deal about what you should wear on Christmas Day – a cosy yet sexy jumper – and New Year’s Eve – something you’ll freeze in – none of them mention Stephenses Day, which I’ve always found baffling. It’s a hard one to nail because I’m going out early, but ultimately it’s an Out Out night: there will definitely be shots and dancing to ‘Country Roads’ in my future. After much deliberation, I decide on jeans and a nice top, with my good Clarks boots. Sure you can’t go wrong.
It’s bang on four when Paul drops me into Maguire’s, but Majella and Pablo are already sequestered at a corner table, wrapped around each other.
‘Ais, I have the pints in,’ Maj roars as soon as she sees me, and I’m barely out of my coat and scarf when Pablo is up kissing me on both cheeks. Of course I go red because, well, it’s not normal.
‘Well, what did you get?’ Maj quizzes me, but before I can trot out the story I’ve prepared about how gas it is that John got me the same present two years in a row, she’s pulling up her good glittery jumper to expose her chest, bringing me face to face with … Pablo. Pablo’s big grinning face on a T-shirt, surrounded by superimposed hearts.
‘Isn’t he just gas?’ Majella laughs, squeezing Pablo’s knee. She leans in closer to me. ‘There are knickers too. And a necklace. And a square of carpet from the Ard Rí in a frame – the location of our first kiss.’
‘My God, he went all out!’ I settle into my seat as John arrives in the door of the pub, and I wave and call over to him, grateful for the distraction. He’s wearing a new check shirt I know his mammy bought him for Christmas and his good Levi’s. Liam Kelly, one of the Rangers, and Denise, his new wife, are with him. John gives me a peck on the cheek (he’s my boyfriend, to be fair to him, so that’s allowed – not like Pablo’s big smackers) while Liam makes a big deal of pulling out a chair for Denise and practically helping her into it. I notice she has a big new Michael Kors on her arm. Fair dues, the boy done good.
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 7