‘Pints, lads?’ John says, doing the international hand signal for ‘pints, lads?’
‘We’re grand,’ I reply with a smile, turning away from Maj and Pablo, who are staring at each other like a big pair of loved-up dopes.
‘Just a soda water and lime for me, thanks, John,’ Denise says quietly, and Majella and I both immediately whip around and lock eyes.
Another one bites the dust. That’s the third WAG now to get pregnant in the last six months, and there’s already been talk of a joint baby shower. Being the organiser of the group – well, any group – I’d usually be all over it, booking the venue and delegating jobs, but I’m finding it hard to get on board with these American trends that seem to be all the rage. What next, carrying little pink guns in our handbags? Suzanne in work did a gender reveal on Chloe and I nearly choked on my Light Babybel (1 Point) when she explained it to me. Apparently, whoever did the scan in the hospital wrote the sex of the baby on a piece of paper and sealed it in an envelope. Then Suzanne’s sister brought it to a bakery and asked them to bake either a blue or pink cake, depending on what was written on the paper, and cover it all in white icing. That weekend they had a party and Suzanne cut the cake and everyone went spare because it was pink for a girl.
I don’t know why, and I hate myself for it, but I’m suddenly very conscious of my bare ring finger. It’s my competitive nature – I can’t help it. I glance over at John and think back to all the other Stephenses nights we’ve had here together and now something seems … off. Missing. This awkwardness between us just won’t go away. I’m trying to remember when it started but I just can’t. Everything was so perfect, so easy, when we got back together. But something has slipped away in the meantime.
‘Not drinking tonight, Denise?’ I ask casually. I can see she’s dying for someone to comment on it and it’s only fair. I’d be the same.
‘I can’t, Ais, I’m on antibiotics,’ she replies with a little smile, not quite meeting my eye. It’s a common dance among women my age and I’m well used to it at this stage.
‘Is it the, eh, breast?’ Pablo asks, making a vague hand gesture in the direction of her boobs, and Denise flushes and looks over at Liam.
‘Jesus, Pablo,’ Majella shrieks, extracting herself from his arms, ‘what are you on about her breast for?’
‘It’s as I was saying earlier,’ Pablo says, doing his mad hand gestures. ‘Same as Eamon, with the breast infection.’
‘Chest,’ I say firmly, picking up my pint of Coors Light and taking a sip. ‘It’s a chest infection Eamon Filan has. Mother of God!’
Thankfully, John arrives back at the table with the drinks before Pablo can mention Denise’s breasts again.
‘Where’s everyone else?’ he asks, cracking open a can. ‘It’s nearly half four.’
‘Maeve Hennessey, Sinéad McGrath and Deirdre Ruane are over in Dick’s in Knock, but Dee just texted me and they’re leaving shortly,’ Majella replies. ‘Apparently there’s a bit of drama outside – a dog bit Mad Tom and he bit it back. The vet is on the way.’
Dick’s is the Maguire’s of Knock. As well as being pubs, they both sell a few grocery essentials and a bit of miscellaneous hardware. Light bulbs, fishing tackle, that kind of thing. The shop part of Maguire’s was recently refurbished so we certainly have the upper hand there – they accept debit cards and all. Since the local garda station closed down neither pub observes the licensing laws too carefully, although Maguire’s tends to stay open the longest and thus pulls in the late crowd. Dick Shea doesn’t have the stamina for it anymore.
‘My cousin is coming out tonight too,’ Denise pipes up. ‘She’s actually moving to Ballygobbard in a couple of weeks so I told her tonight would be a good night to meet everyone. She won’t be here till later, though, because she’s driving up from Waterford.’
‘No offence, but why the hell is she moving here?’
Majella doesn’t mince her words. I mean, I’ll defend BGB until the end of time, especially if someone from Knock is slagging it off, but I have to admit there’s not a lot going on here compared to the buzzing metropolis of Waterford.
‘She’s opening the new beauty salon beside Boland’s,’ Denise explains, and I notice John and Liam drifting off towards the tellies showing the racing action from Leopardstown. Pablo remains glued to Majella, listening to Denise and holding one of Majella’s hands between his two little brown paws. They’re fierce cute. I can’t help but feel a pang of longing for that fresh flush of a relationship. You can’t beat it.
Denise continues. ‘She’ll be doing hair, massages, nails, everything. It’ll be dead handy for weddings in the Ard Rí, and she’s even talking about doing a mobile service down the line, once she has enough staff, where she’ll come to your house and give you a blow-dry in your kitchen.’
The door opens and Maeve, Sinéad and Deirdre walk in, followed by a selection of the lads in their Out Out uniforms of Rangers zip-up jackets and bootcut jeans. A few of the BGB Rovers senior team are propping up the bar, but until training for the new season starts there’s a temporary ceasefire, so cue lots of back slapping and beard rubbing and talk of turkey sandwiches, while Felipe doles out pints and cans and pre-emptive packets of taytos so we can all line our stomachs.
‘Well, lads,’ Sinéad says, sitting down opposite me, can of Budweiser in her hand. ‘Did you all survive?’ She glances around the table, her eyes lingering on me the longest.
‘Ah, it was grand,’ I reply, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Different, but grand. Any craic in Knock?’
‘Billy Foran was mouldy,’ Deirdre says, squeezing in beside Sinéad. ‘He was telling anyone who’d listen that some drug lord is after buying that eyesore of a half-finished building on the Garbally Road. He’s sure the village is going to become a sort of hub for organised crime.’
Well, I’ve heard it all now. Good luck to anyone trying to smuggle arms or launder money around here. The Neighbourhood Watch would be all over it in ten seconds flat now that they have their text-alert group up and running. Every time a white HiAce drives through the village Mammy’s phone starts hopping. According to Una Hatton, white HiAces are always a cause for suspicion.
‘Actually, there is something going on out there,’ I pipe up. ‘Constance Swinford said something about it to Mammy in Aldi on Christmas Eve. And she’d know – it’s out by her place.’
‘Did she mention her mmmaaalch, Ais?’ Majella asks, coming up for air, and two pints are knocked from the table with the laughing.
****
It’s nearly eleven by the time Terry Crowley pulls up outside the Vortex, where the queue is snaking around the corner, almost reaching the main entrance of the Mountrath. I took one for the team and sat in the front passenger seat, ready to field the inevitable inquisition, but he went easy on me, apart from a few gentle enquiries about what we had for Christmas dinner and whether the early lambs have started coming yet and how is Mammy coping at all, at all?
‘You know yourself, Terry,’ is all I could muster, and he just nodded. He lost his sister to cancer a few years ago. Who hasn’t been touched by it at this stage?
After everyone pours out of the car – John, Maj, Pablo and the three girls, all pretty fluthered and still clutching their glasses and cans from Maguire’s – we troop to the top of the queue where Jamesie shakes John’s hand and ushers us inside with his crutch to the opening strains of ‘Mambo No. 5’ – a Vortex classic if ever there was one.
Denise is still going, fair dues to her, and has our usual table behind the back bar secured after driving out to the Mountrath ahead of us. It took years of deliberation, but in 2012 we all agreed that this spot has it all – equidistant between the bar and the toilets, ample space to take our coats and dark enough to cover you pouring out a naggin if you’re nineteen and broke as a joke but determined to get a full night out of a tenner.
Sitting beside Denise is someone I don’t recognise, someone who’s definitely not from BGB – or Knock,
for that matter. She’s very brown and very tall (as tall as Baby Chief Gittons, although she’s sitting down so it might be all torso – I’ve a very long back myself) with white blonde hair down past her shoulders. The lads – Baby Chief, Philip Johnsie, Titch Maguire, The Truck and Eoin Ó Súilleabháin, aka Cyclops – are at the next table nudging each other like they can’t believe they’re in the presence of such an out-and-out babe.
‘Who’s your wan?’ Majella hisses in my ear from behind, before pushing a vodka and Diet Coke into my hand. ‘Her eyebrows are amazing.’
Eyebrows are not something I think about from one end of the day to the next, but it feels like everyone around me is always going on about them. Of course I keep mine in check, plucking them fortnightly with a handy little tweezers I got from the JML stand in Tesco (it has a built-in light and a travel case) but Sadhbh and Elaine have professionals who look after theirs, and now Majella is at it too: 3D brows, microblading, embrowdery – they might as well be talking a different language for all I understand.
‘Yeah, they’re fierce … defined,’ I chance, hoping it sounds like I know what I’m on about. I must go into the bathroom and smooth down my hair and see if I have any lipstick left on me at all.
Pablo suddenly appears behind Majella, and I realise that the three of us are just standing there in a row, staring this poor girl out of it.
‘Girls, I have seats saved,’ Denise calls over to us and we all snap out of it.
I’m the first to arrive at the table, hand outstretched. ‘Hiya, I’m Aisling,’ I say to the glamazon, who I realise is wearing a crop top. In the Vortex. Did we ever think we’d see the day? ‘And this is Majella.’ Maj waves a hello from a safe distance, as does Pablo, before dropping their drinks on the table and heading for the dancefloor. Pablo is not like the rest of the lads when it comes to dancing. It takes John at least eight pints to get going, and only if the DJ is playing The Killers, Kings of Leon or his beloved ‘Mr Jones’. He doesn’t have much rhythm but he makes up for it in enthusiasm, stomping his feet and swinging his arms, lost in the lyrics. Pablo, on the other hand, is very light on his feet and will dance at every opportunity. He was at it the other day in Filan’s when I went in for a sneaky oil change – dancing around with the dipstick in his hand. I honestly didn’t know where to look.
‘This is my cousin Sharon, Aisling, the one I was telling you about,’ Denise says pointedly, gesturing for me to sit down at the other side of her, opposite John and Liam. ‘She’s opening the new beauty salon. It’s going to be way better than Scissor Sisters, isn’t it, Sharon?’
Sharon nods emphatically. I always liked Scissor Sisters – Róisín used to do a lovely wedding up-do, nice and firm, just the way I like it – so I don’t rise to Denise’s bait. I’m loyal like that.
‘Well, welcome to Ballygobbard, Sharon!’ I say diplomatically. ‘How are you finding it so far? It’d be fairly quiet now compared to Waterford, I’d say.’
‘Thanks a million, Aisling,’ she says, knocking back her drink as the opening strains of ‘Mi Chico Latino’ roar out of the ancient speakers. Majella’s work, no doubt. I can only imagine the shapes Pablo is throwing. ‘Yeah, it’s fairly quiet alright but it’s really cute, and the rent is much cheaper. Waterford is a nightmare now and it’s only getting worse. I … I was mad to get out of there anyway.’ She sneaks a quick look at Denise and then turns back to me, pasting on a smile. ‘I can’t wait to get settled in. You must come in for a manicure when I open.’
‘Yeah, definitely,’ I say, and I mean it too. I love a French manicure. Very sophisticated. Mammy put a DIY kit in my Christmas stocking last year but I never got the hang of the little moon-shaped stickers.
‘What do you do yourself, Aisling?’
For a minute she has me. What do I do? ‘It’s a bit complicated at the moment,’ I say, taking a gulp of my drink and explaining the whole redundancy situation.
‘You’ll be in the money so.’ She smiles, clinking her glass against mine gently. ‘Will you take some time off or are you going to go job hunting straight away?’
‘I’m not sure, to be honest,’ I admit. She’s has a very gentle way about her and is a great listener, but I don’t want to go into the whole story of Daddy and my responsibility to Mammy and the farm. I do find myself continuing, though.
‘I’ve started doing up my CV but I’m low on hobbies and I can’t bring myself to exaggerate. I’m really not sure what I want to do with the rest of my life. I’m sort of at a crossroads, I suppose.’
Sharon presses her glass against her lip for a minute and thinks. ‘Well, what do you like doing? What are you good at?’
Jesus, I wasn’t expecting these questions tonight. They’re hard! I haven’t even asked myself them yet. What do I like doing? What am I good at? All I really know is administration, and I do love it, as boring as that sounds.
‘I like numbers,’ I say eventually. ‘And being organised. Planning. Anything to do with spreadsheets, I suppose.’
‘You’re a bit like me, hun!’ she says, and I’m not sure if she’s joking or not. We certainly look very, very different, although I notice a pair of ballet flats poking out of her handbag. Appearances can be deceiving.
‘Shots! Shots, shots, shots!’
I’m just about to ask her what she did before she decided to open the salon when a couple of the girls stumble around the corner with what looks like a tray of thirty Baby Guinnesses. I know we’re all a bit old for shots, but there’s an unwritten rule that you can’t leave the Vortex without doing at least three. I’m just glad we’ve moved on from tequila. The mid-2000s were rough on the lining of my stomach.
Like moths to a flame, Majella and Pablo arrive back at the table, sweaty and smiling, their hands interlocked. John is in a cluster with the lads and Deirdre is nowhere to be found. I suspect she’s the first casualty of the night. The Ruanes are notorious lightweights. Looking around, I realise that the last time the gang was all together was probably Daddy’s funeral.
‘What’ll we toast to?’ The Truck shouts, helping himself as we all stand up. He got the nickname because he’s built like one; no wonder he only let four goals into the Rangers’ net last season.
‘How about new beginnings?’ Denise goes, holding up her glass of water. She cocks her head at Sharon who whoops and holds up her glass, a bit unsteady in her skyscraper heels. I’m not much better, to be fair.
‘New beginnings,’ John says, looking down at me. ‘New beginnings,’ I say back to him quietly. I raise a glass at Majella, who mouths the words back at me before throwing the shot into her. Down in one. No better woman.
Chapter 10
‘Do you fancy going for a drive, Aisling? We could have cup of tea and a cream cake in the new café in Knock Garden Centre? Wait until you see the style.’
Mammy is puttering around the house, walking from room to room, feeling radiators. There’s snow forecast and Paul and Paddy Reilly, who’s always just a phone call away, have already brought in the sheep from the far field, just in case. Neither of us has stepped outside the house all day, but it’ll be dark in a few hours and you’d have to be mad to drive in the dark with snow forecast, so we’d better make a move if we’re going. Why do the days between Christmas and New Year’s Eve feel so interminable? There’s nothing to do and nowhere to go and, to be honest, none of it sits right with me. ‘The taint’ Majella calls it. John asked me if I wanted to go over and spend the day at his house today but my heart just isn’t in it. I don’t want to be at home but I don’t want to leave either. I suppose I just want to stick close to Mammy. I have the house spotless and all the ironing done; I even briefly thought about starting to go through Daddy’s stuff, but no, it’s too soon. Far too soon. I could probably relax and enjoy the break if I knew where I stood for certain financially, but at the moment it feels like I’m stuck in limbo.
I’ve already decided I’m not counting another Point until the New Year so maybe a cream cake would be nice. I
might even pick up a few bits in the sale – Knock Garden Centre has started selling designer wellies and Max Benjamin candles and hot tubs and calling itself a ‘lifestyle destination’. Apparently they’re going to be doing a pumpkin patch next Halloween. None of the locals are falling for it, bar Constance Swinford, who was spotted in there buying a new waxed jacket, but by all accounts customers are coming down from Dublin in their droves to check it out. The boom is back alright.
‘Good idea, Mammy. Just let me change out of my slippers.’
It’s freezing, and we’re gone about ten minutes before the car finally warms up and our breath stops fogging up the windscreen. I’m crawling along the Knock Road, eyes on stalks, looking for the tiniest hint of black ice. You can never be too careful with black ice. Of course I have my hazard triangle and high-vis vest and all the rest of the gear in the boot as per the RSA’s guidelines, but I’m not about to take any chances.
‘Are you sure he definitely said widespread snow, Aisling? Not just on higher ground?’
‘Definitely, Mammy.’ I sigh. ‘Do you think I’m making it up? He said snow everywhere, and also happy birthday to Raquel in Westmeath. Martin King knows what he’s talking about.’
‘But sure it’s too cold to snow, pet.’
She’s right, of course. Declaring it too cold to snow is one of my favourite pastimes. You can’t have frost and snow at the same time, it’s a well-known fact. I scan the sky for flakes – nothing. But the clouds are low and swollen. If I didn’t know better …
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 8