She’s still at the biscuits. I’m just waiting for her to take out the compass and protractor.
‘Honestly, Mammy, you should see the profit margins on tea and coffee. It’s basically a licence to print money.’
‘Well, if you’re doing sausages you’ll want to get Marty Boland’s in. You won’t be short of customers then.’
I’ll take that as her blessing so. ‘Good idea,’ I say, nudging That Bloody Cat out of the way and heading for the back door. ‘See you in a few hours. Good look with your man.’
Myself and Paddy Reilly convinced her it was time to hire someone to help out with the farm on a more long-term basis. Money is tight but Paddy recommended William Foley, a fella from Knock who’ll do it on the cheap, and Mammy is determined to woo him with the biscuits and the promise of flexible hours. I never said anything to her about finding the valuation document, but I’m guessing things can’t be that bad or I would have heard about it. I set a reminder in my phone to have a little worry about it in bed tonight.
My appointment with Deirdre Ruane is at 3 p.m. but I want to get there early so I boot out the Garbally Road. It only takes me five minutes, to be fair. There are a couple of builders knocking around, but the property looks as good as finished – from the outside anyway. The building is three storeys tall, and the commercial unit takes up the whole ground floor. It’s massive, with loads of floor-to-ceiling windows. There are spaces for at least fifteen cars at the front. It’s sitting on about an acre, and I can see the landscaping has already started. The flower bed at the front is looking well, too – there’s no denying the quality of Constance Swinford’s mmmaaalch.
I’m sitting in the car trying to imagine where the sign will go and how big it should be when there’s a sharp rap on the window and I jump. It’s James Matthews wearing a bright-yellow hard hat and a high-vis jacket. I’m nearly blinded.
‘Jesus, you put the heart crossways in me,’ I gasp, rolling down the window. The last time I saw him he was dancing to ‘Oops I Did It Again’. Well, in my dreams anyway.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says, laughing, in his Prince Harry accent, taking off the hat and running his fingers through his hair. ‘You were a million miles away. I was just wondering if you were lost or having car trouble or something.’
‘Neither,’ I say, opening the door and stepping out. ‘I have an appointment with Deirdre Ruane to view the commercial unit. I’m interested in leasing it.’
‘You mean Trevor Ruane?’ James goes, furrowing his brow. His beard and Snickers work trousers make him look slightly dishevelled, but whatever aftershave he’s wearing definitely smells like money.
‘Dee is his daughter,’ I explain. ‘We were in school together so she said she’d show me around.’
‘Ah, I see,’ he says. ‘Sorry, still getting used to life in the country. I keep forgetting you all know each other.’
I nod towards the building. ‘Am I right in thinking you’re almost done? I’d say you’re fairly sick of the Mountrath by now.’
He smiles then does a mock grimace, pushing his hair out of his eyes. ‘It’s fine, but, yeah, I’ve probably had my fill of carvery dinners. I’ll be here for at least another month, though. We’ve just about gotten it weather tight, plenty more to do. And I have another few jobs locally to finish up. Come on, I’ll bring you in.’
‘Are you sure? I can wait for Dee. It’s ten to three.’
‘Not at all, follow me. Just watch your step.’
On closer inspection, there’s still a fair bit to be done, but as soon as I step inside I get a good feeling about the place. There’s light pouring in from all three sides, and I’m imagining how bright and cheerful it will be when it’s all finished. At the moment it’s just bare concrete floors and raw, unplastered walls, but the potential is definitely there.
‘What do you have in mind for the unit?’ James asks, his hard hat dangling from his finger. ‘A crèche or something?’
If I’m not being mistaken for a nurse, it’s a childcare worker. Honestly, if you have a kind face and slightly matronly figure it’s as if there are only two career options.
‘Er, no, I was thinking more like a café,’ I say, peering around the room. ‘Casual but good, hearty food. No shortage of grass-fed beef or free-range eggs or fresh fruit and veg around here. It’s what they all go mad for in cafés above in Dublin. But, now, I won’t be having DJs or any of that craic.’
‘That sounds very much like certain parts of London,’ he says. ‘Do you spend much time in Dublin? I thought you were local. My grandparents are from Ranelagh.’
‘I was living up there until a few months ago and working in finance. I suppose I’m looking for a new challenge.’ I don’t mention the redundancy. I don’t know why, but I’m still a bit mortified.
‘You picked a good spot here anyway,’ he says, going into business mode. ‘The ceilings are 12 feet so it’s nice and airy. All those vents and pipes will be covered once the suspended ceiling goes in, and the lighting will be recessed into it.’
I’m so busy looking up that I don’t see the coil of cables snaking across the floor and trip straight over it. I’m just about to go face first on to the concrete when he puts out his arms and I fall straight into them.
‘I’m so sorry!’ I say into his armpit before I can extract myself. His tool belt is digging right into my hip.
‘My fault entirely!’ he says, hooshing me up easily. ‘Are you okay? How’s the foot? I completely forgot to give you a hard hat on the way in. I hope you won’t sue.’
I burst out laughing just as the front door swings open.
‘Ahem. Am I interrupting something?’
We both wheel around as Deirdre Ruane steps over the threshold. I blush automatically and I hate myself for it.
‘Of course not, I just got here a bit early,’ I stammer, smoothing my hair down.
‘You must be Mr Matthews,’ Deirdre says, walking in our direction beaming, her arm outstretched. ‘Dee Ruane. Trevor couldn’t make it so I’m showing Aisling around this afternoon. She has big plans for the unit!’
James shakes her hand firmly and then puts back on his hard hat. ‘Yeah, she was just telling me. I’ll leave you ladies to it so. Nice to see you again, Aisling.’
As soon as he’s out of earshot she leans in to me and lets out a low whistle. ‘Is he a sight for sore eyes or what? The arse on him. Daddy can have his shite if he thinks he’s hogging this one.’
I didn’t notice the first night I met him – probably because of all the John and Piotr drama – but she’s right. He’s a fine thing, no doubt about it. Very notable arse.
‘Are you and Titch not back together?’ Dee and Titch have been on-again off-again since they played Beauty and the Beast respectively in our joint transition-year school concert with the CBS. I was Mrs Potts, which was no skin off my nose, although I auditioned for the sexy feather duster. Majella accused Sister Bernadette of typecasting me, but she flat out denied it. I still have my suspicions till this day because my rendition of ‘Tale as Old as Time’ didn’t exactly get rave reviews in the school paper.
‘Yeah, I suppose we are,’ Dee admits with a coy smile. ‘I picked him up from the General after Cillian’s thirtieth. Jesus, he was in a bad way – I was worn out shaking the fizz out of bottles of 7Up. I’d still be hard pressed to say no to your man Matthews if he came asking. He sounds like Idris Elba.’
‘He surely has a girlfriend,’ I say in a whisper. ‘A man like that. Possibly even a wife.’
‘Well, he wasn’t wearing a ring.’ Dee shrugs. ‘Anyway, what do you think of the place? Big enough for your café?’
‘Definitely,’ I say. ‘And plenty bright.’
‘Come on and I’ll show you what’s out the back.’
I follow her through swinging double doors to the back room, which would make a very decent kitchen.
‘The electrics aren’t in yet, so we can get it all done to spec for your equipment,’ Dee says, pointin
g to a load of loose wires. ‘And out here is a storeroom and the toilets. The finish is going to be really high-end. Matthews is adamant about that. I have a brochure out in the car for you.’
‘It all looks faboo, Dee,’ I say. ‘When will it be finished? I’m mad to get going.’
‘He’s saying six weeks but Daddy says it could be eight. Does that suit you?’
‘That’s perfect. I’m still getting my ducks in a row.’ I don’t mention the nagging feeling in the back of my mind about the bloody grant. I try not to let myself think about what will happen if the money doesn’t come.
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re well on top of things, Ais. No flies on you, and if they are they’re paying rent. Majella was telling me you’re going to be doing brunch. About time, I said. It’s the twenty-first century, like. Mammy still insists on sitting down to a full roast at twelve on a Sunday. I’m rarely able for it after the night before. Going out for brunch with the girls would be a bit of craic – very Instagram.’
‘Any idea what’s going in up top?’ I enquire, pointing up to the ceiling.
‘I can’t show you just yet because the actual stairs isn’t in, but there’ll be three luxury three-bed apartments. Completely separate entrance so don’t worry about that. I’ll be getting a nice little commission once they’re rented.’
Well, I’m delighted to get all the facts straight from the horse’s mouth (no offence to Dee). And I’ll be able to put a stop to all these rumours of celebrities and Lidls and drug barons. Although part of me is sad Donny Osmond won’t be knocking around. That’d surely be good for business.
As I drive back through BGB I spot something that makes me do a double take. Is that–? It is Pablo on Main Street, sitting on his own on a bench outside Maguire’s. Maybe he’s having a little drink for himself, given that the sun is out. And sure why not? As I drive away I catch sight of someone coming out of the pub and sitting beside him. Looks very like Susie Ó Súilleabháin, although I can’t be sure. Do they even know each other? I must ask Majella.
Chapter 25
It’s my fifth day in a row waiting for Pat Curran – yes, the BGB postman is called Pat – but, once again, nothing back from Entrepreneur Ireland. Apparently it can take a month or more. Mammy, on the other hand, is continuously getting reams of letters, which she immediately secretes away. I’ve an awful feeling they’re bills – first, second and third notices on them. Although, I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled for red envelopes and nothing so far. Are red envelopes only in films, though? It’s hard to know. I’ve been trying to get her to take a few bob off me for rent but she won’t hear of it. ‘You’re opening a business, pet,’ she says. ‘You’ll need every penny.’
Herself and Constance Swinford have become a right pair, gallivanting off on their ladies’ days out in the Range Rover. Mammy has gotten so used to the higher altitude that when I was driving her in for a look around Geraldine’s the other day she complained she wasn’t able to see over any garden walls from my Micra. Apparently they have Auntie Sheila and Tessie Daly roped into doing the Camino with them in the summer.
‘But what do you talk about?’ I quizzed her. I’m imagining Constance honking away about supper and clay-pigeon shooting at every opportunity, or boasting about the quality of her horse’s shite and the effect it has on her rose garden.
‘Ah, this and that,’ was all Mammy would say. ‘Never you mind.’
Still, this new friendship has come in handy for me – some aristocrat family the Swinfords know are having money troubles and need to leave the country in a bit of a hurry. It sounds dodgy, but they used to cater weddings in their manor house and are going to be auctioning off a load of professional kitchen equipment for next to nothing. I might just have to turn a deaf ear to Mammy’s suspicions that Lord Thingamebob is being done for insider trading. The auction is next Friday, so I lit three candles this morning in the hope that I hear back about the grant by then. Desperate times and all that.
Another upside to Mammy getting out more is Paul beyond in Oz is finally calming down. He’s had me mithered with WhatsApps for the past few weeks: ‘Are you filling her tablets box?’ ‘Do you know her blood type?’ ‘Should we get her one of them personal alarm yokes?’ I think he’s feeling the distance between Melbourne and home. He even confessed that he’s been getting up at 2 a.m. every Sunday to tune in live to the Farming Weather. There was just no convincing him to watch it at a more reasonable hour on the RTÉ Player.
Majella said she’d be getting the early Timoney’s bus down today, so I decide to tip over to pass on the baby-shower invitation and grill her about the interview. All she would tell me in a text was that it ‘went grand’, but I’m going to need more detail than that. I hope she used some of the prep questions I sent her last weekend. Where do you see yourself in ten years, Majella? I’d like to know myself.
Shem is climbing out the back of a jeep when I round the side of the house.
‘Aisling,’ he roars across the yard, ‘you like a bit of water sports, don’t you?’
Well, I don’t know where he got that idea. Dearbhla Walsh insisted on going surfing for her hen and, honestly, it may have been the most traumatic day of my life. Would you be well asking your friends to get into the Irish Sea in January? I’m fairly uncoordinated at the best of times, and while I was decent enough at ‘popping up’ when we were on dry land, I wasn’t popping anywhere when we got out on the water. I ended up paddling in early and laying across the radiator in the hostel to warm up.
‘Who told you that now, Shem?’ I shout back, wondering where this could possibly be going.
‘I just got a delivery of a few wetsuits. Brand new, tags and all. I was thinking it’s the kind of thing that always comes in handy. You’re a woman who likes to be prepared.’
When he’s not doing odd jobs, Shem’s a great lad for trying to sell you all manner of bits. He has a brother over in Bristol who’s in the importing business, or so he claims. It used to be great getting to watch films on DVD before they came out in the cinema, and I still have the genuine Ray Bans he sold me for a tenner when I was sixteen, but ever since Aldi came on the scene, well, people can just go to the centre aisle for their random shite. I think it hit Shem hard.
‘Ah, I think I’ll pass on the wetsuit, thanks,’ I say.
‘Are you sure? I’m selling them for €40 but I’ll give you a good deal. Say, €35?’
‘You’re grand, Shem. Is Majella inside?’
He nods and goes back to his unloading while I open the back door. Pablo probably isn’t home from work yet. I realise I haven’t seen him since I spotted him outside Maguire’s that day. I decided not to say anything to Maj. She’s not fond of Susie Ó Súilleabháin, and it probably wasn’t her anyway. I don’t want to start a row over nothing.
The Morans live in one of those bungalows that spread like dandelions all over Ireland in the 1970s. I spent many an evening of my childhood playing Discover Ireland at the big pine kitchen table and plenty of weekends on the couch with the girls from school watching the Disney Channel via a homemade satellite dish Shem nailed to the chimney. The reception was never great, but we could just about make out what was happening on Hannah Montana. Majella thought she was the bee’s knees until a stiff gust of wind blew it down and the Morans had to go back to watching the Irish channels like the rest of us.
Majella is in the kitchen filling the kettle when I walk in. ‘Hiya, Ais,’ she goes, flicking the switch, ‘you timed that well. Here, make yourself useful and pass me the spray bottle on the counter there.’
I’m walking over to get it when I hear an unmerciful howl coming from the utility room, followed by an ear-splitting crash. It’s that loud that it stops me in my tracks, but Majella doesn’t even bat an eyelid and just continues on her crusade around the presses to find two matching mugs. I’m thinking I must have imagined it when it happens again: a howl so loud it nearly splits my eardrums.
‘What the blazes are you hiding in there?�
�� I demand, firing the spray bottle at her.
Maj rolls her eyes and fills the bottle from the tap. ‘It’s fucking Willy, Ais. He’s gone demented – he knows it’s almost four o’clock and Pablo’s due home any minute. He just won’t leave him alone!’
At the mention of Pablo’s name there’s a loud thump from the utility room, which sounds suspiciously like Willy throwing his body against the door.
‘Mammy brought him to the vet yesterday, she was that worried about it. He said Willy is just trying to exert his dominance. It’s a power thing – he’s trying to remind everyone that he’s top dog around here. But I swear to God, it’s …’ she pauses dramatically and hisses under her breath, ‘sexual. He sticks his face in Pab’s crotch and hammers away at his leg until he, you know, finishes. It’s getting to the point where Pablo is dreading coming home in the evening. He’s saying it’s harassment.’
That does sound quite stressful. But if it comes down to it, I know Liz would choose Willy over Pablo any day. The Morans have had that dog since Shane found him in a plastic bag down beside Smyth’s River six years ago. He’s slept on Liz’s bed from day one, and I’ve seen her kiss him on the mouth. She sees him as a sort of adopted son, which makes the mouth-kissing extra disgusting.
‘I don’t suppose you’ll be able to move out any time soon?’ I say hopefully as Maj plonks the two mugs of tea on the table in front of us. Her lips twitch and then her face breaks into a wide smile. ‘Well, actually, I got a call on the bus home to say I got the Deputy Head job!’
‘Majella, oh my God,’ I roar, jumping up to hug her. ‘I’m so delighted for you. The Deputy Head of St Anthony’s and you’re not even thirty! I bloody well knew that interview would be no bother to you.’
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 19