Chapter 43
43
The parish hall had had a major glow-up: green bunting, green balloons and psychedelic lighting moving over the walls. Throngs of festive people were gathered around trestle tables. On the stage, a girl was doing a whispery, angsty song about déjà vu. Her eyes closed, she swung her hair very slowly and…oh? Was that…“Dr Olive ?”
“It is, Anna,” said the man at the ticket table. “How many of you are there?”
I counted us: me, Mum, Claire, Margaret, Rachel, Luke, Helen and Joey. “Eight, ah…” What was this nice man’s name? Custard creams, that was all that came to mind. An image of him ducking to avoid getting one square in the face.
Inside, the place was really hopping. We looked on helplessly, regretting the dithering we’d done, ordering cheesecake after the toasted sandwiches. Had we left it too late to get a table?
“Anna,” a woman called. “We heard you were coming with a crowd. We kept you a spot.”
Now this person I did know! Her name was Pamela. She was another of the custard cream pensioners. In fact, I suspected she was an item with the man on the door, who might be called…I had it! Glen!
“This way,” Pamela commanded.
As we fought our way through the forest of folding chairs, it gave me a small thrill whenever a local waved at me.
“They know you.” Mum seemed confused. “They like you.”
“Oh yes! I’m popular in this town. I could be happy here.” God, I’d had too much wine too early. Drunken arrogance was already peaking and I was about to topple over into sentimentality. Time to move to water.
“Anna!” A tableful of Beardy Glarers, clustered around bottles of ale, greeted me with enthusiasm. “We’re looking for a girl singer to do ‘Where Is the Love.’ Vivian’s let us down.”
“Ah shur, lookit, lads!” Every meaningless placeholder word I could dredge up, I threw at the men (who, I realized, were Peadar Brady and his tilers). “That’d be some craic!” No way would I be singing with them. And especially not filling in for Vivian, who was probably more talented than the real Fergie. “But the mum’s down for the weekend, haha! Need to stop her from dancing on the bar, haha!”
No sooner had I escaped than I met Tipper Mahon, carrying a tray of drinks. His sharp eyes shone, he jerked his black beard upwards by way of hello and he had every appearance of a man about to embark on an anecdote. Very quickly I fixed my eyes on the far wall and kept going. When we reached our table, we had another game of musical chairs: no one wanted to sit beside Joey. So I put him between Luke and me.
“We’re very handy for the bar,” Claire observed, conjuring up a trayload of drinks in double-quick time and promptly disappearing again. The glass of wine she’d got me, I passed along to Mum—my stomach wasn’t able—and bought myself a 7-Up.
On the stage, Dr Olive departed, to desultory applause; Ralph from the hardware shop took her place. To my astonishment, his “Suspicious Minds’ was exceptional .
“Who’s that, in the long dress, beside the stage, introducing the singers?” Mum pointed at a bouffy-haired woman in a column dress made from shiny bronze fabric.
“Is it Ferne?” Joey asked me. “Who gave me the discount on the haddock sweater?”
It was . Bringing unapologetic retro style.
“She’s wasted here,” Joey decided. “Give her the job announcing Ireland’s votes in the Eurovision.”
“Right!” Claire was back. “Apart from Margaret and Mum, I’ve signed us all up with your woman over there at the table. Her name is Muireann. Tell her whatever you’re singing. Each of you owe me twenty euro.” Over Helen’s complaints she said, “It’s for charity!”
“I’ll Revolut it over,” Mum said.
“You haven’t got Revolut.”
“And the joke’s on you because I don’t owe you money!” Loud laughter followed. Some private joke, I suspected. Another one.
“Claire.” Joey passed her a twenty-euro note. “Happy to give to charity but I’m gonna pass on this.”
“Ah, you’re not!”
“I actually am.” His smile was fixed.
“So tell Muireann. Otherwise your woman beside the stage will call your name.”
“C’mon.” Luke stood up and took Joey with him. Helen and I followed. Karaoke was fun, if done in a contained space, with friends. But this whole public performance was a different thing entirely.
My main issue was Ike. He could show up. If this was really happening with him, I needed a song I could perform with both dignity and allure.
“?‘Firestarter,’?” Helen told Muireann.
“The Prodigy?” Muireann asked sharply. “Sorry. No. There are elderly people here. It might upset them.”
“Oof.” Helen had a think, then offered, “?‘Psycho Killer’?”
“Not that either.”
“I don’t want to do anything else. Can I have my twenty euro back?”
“You can, of course.”
“?‘Heroes,’?” I said. I’d realized Muireann was probably Dr Muireann. I’d do well to befriend her.
“David Bowie? Fair play. I thought we might get yet another Dua Lipa.”
Right on cue, the next person on stage started singing ‘Don’t Start Now’ and Muireann made a small, weary noise.
I had an intense longing to go for drinks with Muireann and have enthusiastic chats about how awful everything was. Suggested topics: the cheek of twenty-year-olds thinking they knew everything and that I was a halfwit; how my fear of casual incontinence was made worse by the very ads insisting that sufferers could live a fulfilled life; how the loudness of young men’s grunting in the gym should be made a literal crime.
“Anna!”
I turned. It was Hal Mahon.
“Hi!” I was happy to see him. “Hold on, let me just…” I grabbed Joey. “C’mere. Meet Hal Mahon, Tipper’s brother. One of the crew.”
“The go-boy himself!” Hal extended a hand. “D’you know something? You’re fierce handsome close up.”
A shout of surprised laughter escaped Joey.
“Jeepers, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” Hal was suddenly shamefaced. “I’ve no filter, so I’m told. And to be honest, it’s Anna I’ve my eye on.”
“You’ve great taste there.” Holy smoke, Joey was charmed . “Thanks for your hard work on Kearney’s Farm.”
“Nothing to thank me for.” Hal looked embarrassed. “All I do is donkey work. No skill to it.”
“Hard work is hard work,” Joey said.
Hal shook his head. “I was always told I’d amount to nothing. I’m only thirty-four but so far they’re right.”
“So?” I asked. “What’re you singing tonight?”
“Nothing.” He was oddly keen to tell us. “I’m barred from it. About five years ago I got carried away. Broke the mic and fell off the stage. I’m a liability. Muireann says it’s for my own good and she’s a doctor.”