Chapter 3
‘Definitely number three, Bronagh,’ Moira O’Mara, about to breeze out the door on her way to college, pointed decisively at the message pad as her scarf slipped forward. ‘The way the “h” at the end of Walsh curls around is a winner.’
She was leaning over the reception desk, inspecting Bronagh’s signature handiwork, and straightened, flicking the colourful knit back over her shoulder in readiness to get on her way.
Today, on account of the dip in temperature, she’d slipped a battered suede jacket on over the top of her eclectic student attire.
Moira’s impoverished student look during the college week was in stark contrast to the short skirt suits she’d favoured when she’d worked for a law firm.
Mind, the ‘skirts that barely cover your arse’, as Mammy was fond of calling them, still got an airing whenever they got the chance.
They just didn’t get the chance very often these days because Moira was a mammy herself now.
She was also a chameleon who blended into her environment, and this morning’s environment was the fine art college where she was studying.
Tom, who was on his way to qualifying as a doctor, had dropped their daughter Kiera around to his mam’s before heading to the hospital.
He’d been placed on clinical placement and was enjoying the practical experience of being hands-on.
His mam, Sylvia, would walk her precocious and precious little granddaughter to nursery, pick her up, and drop her home in time for tea.
Moira could have taken her this morning, given her later start, but Sylvia enjoyed her day with Kiera, and Kiera adored her grandparents on both sides. Although Mammy O’Mara had whispered quietly in Moira’s ear more than once that she was her favourite nana.
Moira replied that if that were the case, it was only because she always bought Kiera a cream slice from the café down by the harbour when she had her for the day. Kiera was already calling her Nana Yum-Yum.
It wasn’t always easy juggling being parents and students, but Tom and Moira made it work thanks to the support of their families.
So much so that lately they’d begun thinking about a baby brother or sister for Kiera before the gap got any bigger.
They hadn’t planned for her to be an only child.
Come to that, they hadn’t planned for her at all! Still, it had all worked out grand.
It wasn’t the right time financially, but there was a saying that you never regretted the children you did have, only the ones you didn’t. Sure, they’d managed once; they’d manage again.
Mind you, as the youngest of four, there were plenty of times Moira had thought how marvellous it would be to be an only child, but then Mammy would ring and she’d think how lucky she was to have a sibling close by to fob her off onto.
‘What are all those dots, Bronagh? They look like you were after stabbing at the pad.’
‘I was. I was thinking bad thoughts about my sister, Hilary.’
‘I can relate. My thoughts were very bad this morning about Aisling when I shook the cornflakes box and nothing came out. Can you guess who fancied a little midnight snack at 9 p.m. last night?’
Moira didn’t wait for Bronagh to guess. ‘Aisling. That’s who. And she’d only gone and put the empty box back in the cupboard.’
‘Naughty girl.’ Bronagh tutted, shaking her head. ‘I’m more a Special K woman myself. I’ve put your mammy onto it too.’
‘Yeah, about that.’
‘Moira O’Mara, tell me you did not help yourself.’
‘You weren’t here and I was starving.’
Moira had slunk downstairs like a hungry orphan child shortly after seven that morning with her empty bowl, knowing where Bronagh kept her cereal stash. She couldn’t be arsed hanging about waiting for Mrs Flaherty to fry her something, so she’d targeted Bronagh’s Special K.
‘Only a sprinkle, like. Blame Aisling.’
Life on the top floor of the Georgian building, where Moira and her little family of three shared the family apartment with her middle sister Aisling, her husband Quinn, and their twin babies, Aoife and Connor, usually ran smoothly enough.
The girls had grown up above O’Mara’s, with their mammy and daddy running the guesthouse before their daddy had passed away and their mammy had passed the reins to Aisling.
It was their home, but they didn’t cohabitate because they hankered after a more Amish way of life. You know, the way Amish folk shared the workload and lived simply with their extended families close by—really close by.
Not at all, because for one thing Moira was quite lazy and didn’t like sharing, and for another, she and Aisling were more into painting their toenails than quilting and making sauces and things from scratch.
The reason for their close-quartered apartment living arrangement was mostly financial, with the added benefit of built-in childcare if one of them needed to nip out.
And, for the most part, the arrangement worked well apart from when the cornflakes got snaffled and not replaced.
Or when clothes got borrowed without asking.
Or someone took hours in the shower and used all the hot water.
Or the headboard was after banging too loudly in the room next door. That sort of thing.
Moira felt like stabbing the message pad herself as she asked, ‘So, what’s Hilary after doing?’
Bronagh heaved a sigh, and Moira could tell by the look on her face that if she were to perch on the edge of the desk and let Bronagh vent, she would be late for college.
She owed her, though, for the Special K theft, and sure, how many times had Bronagh listened to her as though she were employed as an agony aunt rather than a receptionist? So she perched, listening and growing ever more outraged on Bronagh’s behalf at her sister’s selfish stance.
Roisin and Aisling could be annoying, but when it came to it, they did look out for one another. Patrick, their eldest brother over there in America, was more about himself, although even he was mellowing now he had a family.
Hilary, however, only looked out for number one, and by the time Bronagh was finished, Moira was ready to take a hit out on the woman’s behalf.
As this was impossible, the best she could do was pat her on the shoulder and offer to foot-trip her at the wedding reception.
‘That’s another thing,’ Bronagh said, uncharacteristically glum.
‘Mam’s on about Hilary being my matron of honour.
I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than have Hilary next to me when I say my vows to Lenny, but at the first hint of stress Mam’s health goes downhill.
I want my wedding day to be a happy one, not fraught with family tensions. ’
‘Were you hers?’
‘Hilary’s maid of honour? No. That dubious honour fell to Philomena, her husband’s sister. I was one of her six bridesmaids. She wed in 1964 and chose canary yellow for her bridesmaids. I look like I’m suffering from jaundice in her wedding photographs.’ Bronagh shuddered.
‘It doesn’t seem fair you’re expected to have Hilary then.’
As the youngest O’Mara child, Moira was all about what was fair. Although her siblings insisted it was they who’d been dealt the unfair hand because, as the baby of the family, Moira had got away with murder.
Bronagh shrugged. ‘Mam’s always fretted about upsetting Hilary. I suppose every family has its prima donna.’
‘Yes, in ours it’s Aisling.’
Bronagh smiled, knowing full well Aisling would say it was Moira. Roisin was the easier of the three O’Mara girls.
‘You’ve been very close-lipped about what you were thinking for the wedding. I mean, you’ve set the date for November twenty-second, I know that much, but you’ve not booked anything else, so far as I know.’
Bronagh pursed her lips moving them from left to right because that was exactly where she was at with her wedding plans. She didn’t know what she wanted, and time was marching ever closer.
Far too close.
Sometimes at night she had palpitations when she thought about the wedding being two months away and her having organised precisely nothing.
The way things were looking, the day she’d meticulously planned in her head would wind up being an ‘I do’ at the church followed by a pub lunch for those who fancied a pint and a bite to eat.
Very elegant.
This was at odds with what she’d always imagined for her wedding day.
Mind, she’d not visualised being a menopausal woman by the time she said her vows!
Bronagh had been a bridesmaid more times than she could remember.
Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. That had been her.
How many times over the years had she pored over bridal magazines choosing the dress she’d wear if it were her getting wed?
So you’d be forgiven for thinking she’d ordered the dress, booked the reception venue, and was eagerly anticipating her dream day, but she’d done neither of those things, and the eager anticipation was turning into sickly dread.
All she’d managed to do was book the church.
Actually, she hadn’t even done that. Lenny had, once he’d pinned her down on a date.
He got on very well with Father Kilpatrick, thanks to the fact he had a golden retriever called Rex.
The priest had also been accommodating about the date, given Bronagh and her mam had been attending St Mary's for donkeys' years.
The thing was, she was excellent at organising other people but hopeless at organising herself, and Lenny was no help.
He had been so caught up in trying to sell his house that he’d not had much time for anything else.
His confidence that Bronagh had everything in hand, and that he would simply buy a swish new suit and go with the flow on the day, was sorely misplaced, she thought, rubbing her temples.
She could feel a headache coming on and needed a sugar fix.
‘Things are in hand, Moira, and they’re on a need-to-know basis,’ she fibbed.
‘Well, just remember it’s your day, Bronagh, not your mam’s and not Hilary’s.
You’ve waited a long time for Leonard Walsh and you deserve the day of your dreams. Don’t let anyone take the shine off it.
Speaking of matrons of honour and bridesmaids, who were you thinking?
’ Moira sat up a little straighter on her desktop perch.
‘That’s easy. I’d like two. Joan, Lenny’s sister, and Maureen as matrons of honour. Sure, Joan’s going to be my sister-in-law, and Mo’s been more of a sister to me over the years than that mare Hilary.’
Moira cleared her throat. ‘And, er, bridesmaids?’
Bronagh opened the bottom drawer and fetched the custard creams. ‘There are three girls who are like daughters to me. They spring to mind if I were to go the traditional route.’
Moira eyed the yellow custard-filled biscuits.
‘Just so you know, Bronagh, Rosi and I don’t look well in yellow either, and Aisling looks like a marigold with her colouring.’
‘Note taken, Moira.’
They clinked custard creams.