‘And has Fionnuala scratched you off her Christmas card list?’ I know for a fact she has one – she asked me to update my address when I moved back Down Home.
‘Quite the opposite, in fact,’ Sadhbh says. ‘She’s now trying to be my best friend. Like, she normally reefs my clothes out of the washing machine the minute they’re done, even when she’s not putting on a wash herself, but she let them sit in there for two days last week.’
I do have to remind myself that living with Sadhbh and Elaine wasn’t all plain sailing. I’m just about to quiz her on the latest celebs they’ve had through the office – I have my Kodaline CDs ready for signing whenever she gives the nod – when Sadhbh exclaims and gestures out the window. ‘Speak of the devil – isn’t that Pablo right there?’
I follow the direction of her gaze and, sure enough, there he is, standing on the street opposite the café and hugging Susie Ó Súilleabháin!
‘Oh my God! What’s he at?’
Sadhbh looks confused. ‘What do you mean, what’s he at? Who’s your one?’
‘Susie Ó Súilleabháin. She’s from BGB – Cyclops’s sister.’
One of Majella’s mortal enemies.
‘What are the pair of them doing together up in Dublin?’
Your guess is as good as mine, Sadhbh.
‘D’you know, I wasn’t going to say anything, but something about Pablo’s been bugging me for a while. I keep catching him eyeing people – women – up. Staring at them, like. And that’s the second time now I’ve seen him on his own with Susie.’
‘Yikes, that’s a bit suspicious!’ Sadhbh looks shocked, and rightly so. Everyone who meets Pablo finds him to be so dotey. But what if everyone is wrong?
‘Will you tell Majella?’
Will I tell Majella? It would break her heart if Pablo hurt her. She’s been through so many positive changes over the last few months with the new job and the engagement. Okay, so living on top of her family and Willy the insatiable hound isn’t ideal, but she seems so happy.
‘I don’t know, Sadhbh. I really don’t know.’
Chapter 30
I don’t have to wait too long to decide what to say about Pablo because Majella drops into the café, which is still looking rough and not-very-ready, the very next day, dying for a nose around and a gossip. She’s mad for all the latest on Don and Sadhbh and nearly comes off the crate she’s sitting on when I tell her about the tattoos. I seize the opportunity to mention Pablo.
‘Did I see Pab up in Dublin yesterday too?’ I say casually. ‘He should have told me he was going, I could have given him a lift.’
Majella looks confused. ‘No, can’t have been him. He was away on some kind of bar training course for the hotel, but it was in Kilkenny, I think, he said. He must have a doppelganger. Two fine young things walking the streets of Ireland.’
Doppelganger, my hole. I know what I saw. Why on earth would he lie to her? I decide not to push it there and then and store it away in my brain to maybe ask Pablo himself.
The next fortnight is so hectic I barely get a chance to even think about it, though. I comfort myself by deciding that Pablo’s probably planning something nice for Maj, and there’s no harm in it at all. It keeps the guilt at bay for the time being anyway. She’s so wrapped up in her engagement joy too – I couldn’t do anything to ruin it for her. She’s ordered one of those jewellery-cleaning kits she saw on QVC, and she nearly has the ring polished away already. I’d say poor Pablo is sweating that some of the colour might come off it.
Me and Carol are up late every evening in her workshop, coming up with menus and recipe ideas. Well, she’s coming up with the recipes, and I’m not sure if my suggestion of sprinkling a few seeds on everything is much use. They’re all at it up in Dublin. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to get a cup of tea with a few seeds sprinkled on it one of these days. It’s bad enough when they put half a flower bed on something and expect you to say it’s delicious. Pansies taste like grass – and That Bloody Cat uses Mammy’s pansy bed as her own personal ensuite, so I’ll leave them on the side, thank you very much. Marty Boland has left us alone for the most part, but I can only call over when Carol’s made him his dinner and he’s settled in front of the telly for the night. I’m a bit worried about how she’s going to get out to BallyGoBrunch every day for work – I can’t keep giving her lifts – but she says there’s an old bike in the shed that she’s going to fix up. I told her it’s a shame she can’t drive, but it turns out she can. She just has no access to a car. ‘You’ll be able to save up for one when you’re working,’ I told her, but she looked dubious. That mean old bastard Boland. Sitting on all the cash. If I could magic him away I would.
Carol is totally on board with using local producers. We both agree that if we’re going to put BGB on the brunch map then we should showcase the very best it has to offer. There’s only so far a top-notch Chinese takeaway and a decorative water pump can take a town. There are so many stories about rural villages dying a death, so if I’m going to be staying in BGB then I might as well give it my all. We’re taking all our veg from three farmers in the area and another two local farms are supplying the eggs. They’re as free range as they come. I know because I’ve nearly ended up in the ditch several times avoiding a loose hen on the road. Sweeney’s strawberries are only delighted with the massive order we’ve put in. Carol has a strawberry compote yoke to go with pancakes that’s to die for. It’ll take me a while yet to come to terms with the idea that you can have pancakes on more than one day of the year, but I’m not one to stand in the way of progress.
Mammy can’t get her head around the different types of coffees we’re going to be doing, but Sadhbh sent me an article from the Irish Times about coffee culture and how it’s showing no signs of waning, so I am a hundred per cent getting on that train. There’s people who never looked beyond an instant cappuccino sachet until a few years ago who are now practically flying to Guatemala to pick their own beans every morning. I’m still partial to an instant cappuccino myself. I’m not mad on coffee, but I’m a divil for the little packet of chocolate shavings. Felipe in Maguire’s knows a lad out beyond Knock who roasts his own beans, so we’ve been in touch and he’s going to come in and teach us a few things. Sharon is thinking of getting coffee in to the salon too, so he’s got new customers coming out of his ears. She finally opened last week, and I took a night off to toast the occasion with two glasses too many of prosecco. I had some head on me the next morning and me having to meet a man about sanitary bins for the café toilets. The glamour never stops. The salon is still unofficially called ‘Sharon’s’. She has a makeshift sign above the door while she agonises over the latest possibilities: Hair 2 E-Tanity or She Bangs. I’m blue in the face telling her that nobody will concede to calling fringes ‘bangs’, so she’s still working it out.
‘Coffee machine is here, Aisling.’
‘Ah, thanks, James.’
Four days to go until the soft opening and James is still finishing off bits and pieces, while Carol is finally in the kitchen, getting used to how everything works. I’ve made noises about paying James for all the extra bits he’s done for me, but he’s having none of it. I really do feel like it’s outside his remit, though. He’s done solar panels on the roof, which I think is cracked. You’d be lucky to get two sunny days in a row in BGB, but he claims it makes a huge difference. More progress. I’ll be driving to work in a car with no steering wheel yet. Mad Tom actually did have a car with no steering wheel for a while, but that was more down to gross negligence than technological advances.
James and the delivery man are just huffing and puffing the machine into place on the counter when Mammy pokes her head around the door.
‘Anyone for scones?’
I think she’s a bit put out that Carol is going to be doing the scones for BallyGoBrunch, so Mammy has taken to pushing hers on us any chance she gets. She’s also got it into her head that James needs feeding up with all the work he’s doing. He l
ooks sturdy enough to me, but I think maybe he reminds Mammy of Paul a little bit with the brown curly hair.
‘Lovely, Mammy!’ I call to her. ‘Carol, any compote going?’
Carol brings out a tray of bits, and we have a makeshift scone picnic at one of the tables me and Maj put together at the weekend. There were two screws left over, and Majella just opened the door and fired them into the nearest bush. I didn’t sleep a wink that night thinking about them, but the table is still standing so we’ll hope for the best.
James waves Mammy away when she offers him a scone but gestures at her to follow him outside. ‘I’ve something to show you, Marian,’ and she’s off out after him like a hare out of a trap. I’d say he’s charmed some number of mammies in his time.
‘What are that pair at?’ I muse at Carol as James helps Mammy over some rubble and points at God knows what around the perimeter of the building.
Carol shrugs and says gently, ‘They’re good pals, your mam and James.’
Between James and Constance, Mammy is one step away from a pair of Hunter wellies and doing her Big Shop in Avoca.
Carol and I clean up, and I set about reading the manual that came with the coffee machine. Felipe’s pal will show us the ropes, but I want to have my homework done. I look up as I see James give a shout and wave and hop into the jeep. Off for yet more supplies, no doubt. Mammy comes back in, her cheeks flushed from the fresh air.
‘What were you doing out there?’ I ask innocently.
‘Ah, he was just showing me this and that. I’m interested. Your father was very handy, and I miss watching him and helping him.’
Daddy was very handy alright, although his DIY skills were self-taught – you still need to turn on the light in the press in the hall to get the lamp in the front room to work.
‘And James is a lovely young man. Very … handsome.’
Mother of God, does Mammy have a crush on James Matthews? She pipes up again before I have a chance to tease her.
‘I hear John let the school down the other day.’
Talk about jarring. I haven’t heard or thought about John in weeks. Mammy’s tone implies she’s less than impressed.
‘He was asked to do a medal ceremony for the sports day, and he was too busy to be there. The children were very disappointed by all accounts.’
The louser! Talk about getting above his station. And him only a selector. Imagine if he was actually on the team. I’m disgusted.
‘Mrs Timoney says they had posters made for him and everything.’ Mrs Timoney has been known to use local primary-school child labour to weed her garden. She’s fond of the odd ‘nature walk’ to her herbaceous borders, so I don’t know if she’s the right one to be acting the role of the morality police, but it does sound very lax of John.
‘I suppose if he’s busy, he’s busy.’
Mammy hasn’t said much about me and John since we broke up, so I don’t know how she really feels about him. But I still feel like I have to defend him a tiny bit. Even if it does sound like he’s well and truly up himself.
‘Ah, here’s James back again. Isn’t he great?’ I think there’s a new number one in Mammy’s eyes. I watch him as he heaves three terracotta pots out of the back of the jeep. He gets good deals in the Garden Centre, and I want the outside looking as nice as the inside.
‘Are you all set anyway, pet?’ Mammy’s eyes travel around the café, and I follow them, imagining what it will be like in a just a few short days.
She turns to me, with tears glistening in her eyes. ‘I’m so proud of you Aisling. And Daddy would be beside himself.’
Chapter 31
My heart is in my mouth as I turn the key in the BallyGoBrunch door. I’m opening for customers for the very first time. Tessie Daly is ready and waiting, and so is Constance Swinford. Majella and Pablo are just pulling into the car park, and Deirdre Ruane and Titch Maguire are right behind them. Pulling the door open, I welcome Tessie and Constance inside. They’re in like hot snots at a table with Mammy, oohing and aahing over the menu. We have a limited selection on offer for the day that’s in it. A ‘soft opening’ it’s called – no big fanfare. It’s fierce common with restaurants, and it takes a bit of the heat off. It’s a good thing, really, because my nerves are nearly gone already. I’m putting a lot of faith in the sausages and Carol Boland’s homemade ketchup to go along with them. The tomatoes come from Mossy Folan’s farm next door to Bolands’. For a while there was a suspicion they might have been growing hash plants in the polytunnels along with the tomatoes, but only because Mossy is away with the fairies half the time. We have eggs cooked various ways too and as much freshly baked bread as people can shovel into them. I consulted with Carol and ordered a heap of avocados as well. I don’t know if BGB is ready for them just yet, but you never know what people will be after. I am promising brunch, after all, and if it’s smashed avocado they’re after then I’ll put them in a bag and drive over them in a Massey Ferguson if I have to.
‘Ais! Hiya, Ais!’
Majella and Pablo have already seated themselves at a table by the window, and Majella is waving over at me like a madwoman, giving me the thumbs-up. Beside her, Pablo is giving me the oddest look. A dirty look, if we’re calling a spade a spade. Eyes narrowed, brow furrowed. It sends a bit of a chill through me. I wonder did Majella mention to him that I thought I’d seen him in Dublin. Images of him waving his lad at Susie Ó Súilleabháin dance around my head. When he realises I’m looking straight at him his face relaxes and he starts waving like a lunatic too. I ignore him as Deirdre and Titch join them, and I wince as Titch lowers his mud-stained training shorts onto my gingham cushions. He must have been out on the pitch early this morning. It’s amazing how many pints those lads can sink on a Friday night but still manage to drag themselves to training first thing on Saturday morning. That’s dedication. Majella beckons me over but I’m relieved to be able to wave her off with an ‘I’m busy’ and an apologetic smile. She looks at me funny but turns to Maeve Hennessey’s 16-year-old sister, Paula, who’s trying to take Pablo’s order. There seems to be some confusion about his desire for ‘huevos rancheros’ and her insistence that we don’t actually sell crisps yet.
I’m just about to tip into the kitchen to see if Carol and the lad we have interning from the Mountrath are coping okay when another car pulls into the car park, and another behind that. And here’s Melanie Rice and her husband, Turlough, with the tiny hands, coming in on foot pushing a buggy. Word spreads fast, it seems, even if your opening is as soft as a baby’s arse. Sharon’s just behind them. She said she’d call in if she could get away from the salon.
‘More customers, Paula,’ I call to her, as she delivers open sausage sandwiches to Mammy, Tessie and Constance. I took some convincing not to put the sausages between two slices of bread, but Carol swears that one big doorstep of batch is enough to sit them on and it will look more attractive. Anyway, they can always ask for more on the side if they want. Unlimited bread is a dream concept, to be fair. Maybe she’s onto something.
Sharon, Melanie, the husband and their toddler squeeze in beside Majella and their gang. Thank God I took James Matthews’s advice and ordered a few high chairs. I didn’t have it as a priority but he said I’d regret it. I’ve read more books and websites about running a café over the past few weeks than I thought could be in existence, but there’s still a never-ending snag list of things to sort out.
Four more people have come through the door out of the two cars, and it’s time to put my student waitressing days to good use. I don’t recognise any of them – they’re not locals. I don’t know if that’s better or worse for my nerves.
They sit down together, shedding their jackets, and look around the place. As I approach with my special soft-opening menus – another ink cartridge gone – one of them, a blonde with one of Sadhbh’s mad Cos dresses on, nods approvingly, ‘Very shabby chic. Love it.’ I nearly fall over my own feet with delight. I have to stop myself from pointing out the
plug in the floor by her feet, in case she wants to put a picture of my huge lampshades on Instagram. People put all sorts up on Instagram. Half-eaten breakfasts, them laughing at their own feet, whatever Majella and Sharon are doing across the room right at this minute. Now, when Sadhbh pointed out the lampshades sitting skew-ways on top of some standard lamps in a charity shop in town on another reconnaissance trip, I nearly got sick laughing, but she was right: they do ‘fit in with the aesthetic’.
More sausage sandwiches, one portion of poached eggs with avocado (thank you, gentleman inexplicably wearing sunglasses inside) and a pot of strong tea ordered for this gang. I suspect there are hangovers all round. They probably missed the hotel breakfast over at the Ard Rí after a wedding.
‘Can I ask how you heard about us?’ I enquire as I place the scalding pot down in the centre of the table, lowering a cosy over it.
‘Oh, the barman at the hotel last night was raving about it. Don’t know where he was from but he’s definitely not local. He kept saying “The sausages, hup.” We were in stitches.’ She adopts a vaguely Spanish accent to mimic the barman.
I look over to where Pablo is mostly obscured from view by the crowd at his table but is gesticulating wildly with a heel of bread. What a dotey thing for him to do, bigging up the café like that. Maybe I have him all wrong.
I barely have time to turn around when the door goes again. I didn’t even see Mad Tom careen into the car park on his bike. He careens everywhere on it now, after finally losing his licence. One too many penalty points. He had to go to court and the local paper said it must have been a record for the number of times the word ‘menace’ has been uttered in one sitting. He’s a divil for Boland’s sausages, though it was only a matter of time before he was in for ours like a homing pigeon.
I dip into the kitchen to collect the food for the table of blow-ins – Carol’s face is the colour of a poinsettia, but everything seems to be in hand. The young fella, Noel, is having something of a baptism of fire after his days of lobbing on vats of chips over at the Mountrath. We managed to convince him to jump ship for half the pay with the promise of Carol giving him a bit of training.
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 23